


War Is Hell

by PreciselyVex (CrashEdit)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bickering, Closeted Character, Cottaging (mention of), Frottage, Guns, Jolto, M/M, Manly Men Doing Manly Things, Medical Procedures, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, Rimming, Slow Burn, Snogging, War, War violence, capability kink, depictions of violence, eventual light BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:02:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 82,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6179407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrashEdit/pseuds/PreciselyVex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <img/><br/></p>
</div><div class="center">
  <p>Cover by: The very wonderful <a href="http://justacookieofacumberbatch.tumblr.com/">justacookieofacumberbatch</a>! Go give her lots of kudos <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6902272">here</a>! </p>
</div><strong>In 2008, Captain John Watson and Major James Sholto survived Afghanistan’s “Highway to Hell” – but the real hardship was surviving one another.</strong><p> </p><p>Chapters 4-? The fantastic <b><a href="http://bakerstmel.tumblr.com/">BakerStMel</a></b> has been kind enough to Beta!</p><p>Chapters 1-3 **No Beta, No Britpick!**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Camp Bastion

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, I'm writing about two things I know nothing about - war and battlefield medicine - so I welcome any and all corrections. Research can only get you so far!  
> 
> 
>   
> **MUSIC NOTES**  
>  The Three Songs I listened to, on a loop, while writing "War is Hell" were the testosterone-laced:
> 
> ["Gasoline"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=62_0ZHhOo58) by Audioslave  
> ["Bawitaba"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6J9ayHYClw8) by Kid Rock  
> ["Ain't No Rest For The Wicked"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKtsdZs9LJo) by Cage the Elephant  
>  ****  
> 
> 
> 12/18/16 

 

“The Yank’s stabilised.”

Watson looked up, mid-suture. “Edwards? Good on him. Touch and go for a while there.” His current patient shifted position, and he pressed a light hand to her shoulder. “Stay put, Lieutenant. We’re almost done.”

The medic in the doorway crossed his arms. “Turns out he’s a VIP. The Yank, I mean. Son of a senator or summat. They want him bundled up and hand-delivered to Bagram.”

Watson snorted. “Yeah, well, I want a decent cup of tea and an MRI scanner, but I’m not exactly holding my breath. They shouldn’t either.”

The patient he was stitching up, a military war machine who also happened to be blonde and quite fit, couldn’t help but grin at his comment. Yeah, the tea was just that bad…

“See, she knows.” Watson beamed, pleased to have such pleasant-looking backup for once. He turned to the medic. “So when’s this supposed to be happening?”

“Tomorrow.”

Watson frowned and shook his head. “Absolutely not, he’s not been out of surgery for 72-hours, he can’t fly.”

“He’s not flying.”

“Oh, that’s genius,” Watson grumbled, returning to his sutures. “Fucking Americans think this is a carpool? Asking us to pull a 16-hour roundtrip run with a barely stabilised patient in the middle of a bloody war – and over Highway One, no less!”

“They just want him home, as quickly as possible,” countered the Military War Machine, joining the conversation. “Is that so wrong?”

"You tell me, Lieutenant," Watson said, "You've spent some time on that road. Is it wrong that they'd rather get him killed - along with the team that takes him - than wait a few days for safe transport? To me, that's madness."

"It's some shite, for sure," she said. "Glad it's not me on that run."

Watson turned back to the medic. "Yeah, sorry Davis, that's bad luck."  

“Oh, it isn’t _my_ bad luck.” The medic said, having the decency to at least look apologetic.

_Dammit._

Watson paused, then sighed, and completed the last throw of the final suture before nodding to Davis. “Give us a hand with this?”

He stepped forward, grabbed the scissors from the tray and snipped the thread after the doctor tied it off. Watson patted the Leiutenant’s arm, “All done, soldier. Keep it clean, I’ll check back in a week.”

“Yeah, alright,” She said, and stood, peering appreciatively at his handiwork before shrugging, “I mean, you know, if you’re still alive after this run.” She smiled and moved to the door.

Watson winced. “Oh, cheers for that. Good times,” he said, sarcastically, and held the door open for her, the sunlight outside bright and blinding. As she took her exit, he called after her “Keep talking like that and next time I’ll use a bigger needle!”

Davis watched her go, and then turned to Watson with a sly grin. “You don’t usually tend to minor wounds, do you?”

Watson returned the grin. “Oh, god no. Medics handle that.”

“Yeah, of course.” Davis nodded, feigning sincerity. “Unless the patient's a gorgeous, blue-eyed blonde, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, all gorgeous, blue-eyed blondes are automatically diverted to proper MDs, that’s the standard procedure.” Taking the piss out of Davis was one of Watson’s few pleasures in this war, and happily, the good natured medic was capable of giving as good as he got. On this day, however, the US military would be the one doing the honors.

“So, you gonna officially tell me the bad news, or what?” Watson stripped off his gloves and dropped them into the bin by the door.

Davis pulled the transit papers from his back pocket and handed them over. “The United States Government requests the honor of your presence…”

“Oh, fucking hell,” Watson said, and grabbed the paperwork. When he’d read enough, he looked over at Davis. “Why me?”

“You were the one who found him, man,” Davis smirked, “You’re the one who decided to be a hero.”

“Shut it,” Watson gritted, and neatly folded the papers in fourths, shoving them into his own back pocket. “The only heroic thing about me is that I’m not afraid of Private Dickson’s Manchester Moonshine...”

“Scoff first, though – I can only drink that sludge on a full stomach,” Davis opened the door and turned to Watson cheekily. “Unless you’d rather grab a couple near-beers at the base bar?”

“Bite your tongue, my son,” Watson said, cuffing him and pushing him out the door.

 

*****

 

0400 hours is never a pleasant time of day, but it’s particularly unpleasant after a night of drinking raisin wine and potato vodka from Dickson’s still, capped off by several capfuls of the green “mouthwash” Clarke’s wife had sent him in his latest care package.

_…and they say Camp Bastion is dry…_

Even after a night of all that, Captain Watson was still able to arrive at the motorpool, as instructed, only a few minutes past the appointed time. Somehow he doubted that the Driver – Lance Corporal Hammond, according to the transfer documents -- would mind a few minutes’ wait. When he arrived, the battlefield ambulance doors were already open, and soldiers were loading boxes into the back of the cab.

Watson stopped one of them. “What’s all this?”

“We were told to load these in the back of the BFA, Sir.”

“A _patient_ is going in the back of this ambulance, Private,” Watson said pointedly, picking up a box and putting it back to the soldier’s hands.

“All due respect, I have orders to load these into the ambulance, Sir.“ The soldier pointedly returned the box back in the back of the van. “Don’t worry about the Yank, though - we were told to leave plenty of room for the patient.”

“And who gave you these orders?”

“ _I did_ , Captain.”

A voice from behind the ambulance rang out, sharp and clear, a voice used to giving orders and never being questioned.

_Oh, bloody hell…_

Watson automatically straightened his posture.

 

*****

 

Major James Sholto was born to be in the military, the latest in a long line of decorated Sholtos dating all the way back to the Anglo-Zulu War. Well-built and at well over six-feet tall, he certainly suited the role physically, but he also suited the role in other ways: his temperament was controlled, his expression was stern, and his words were famously few and far between.

Watson knew _of_ Major Sholto, of course, a military star on the rise, but he’d never actually met him until that day in the motor pool. Realizing who he was speaking to, Watson cleared his throat, and lifted his chin, willing himself not to be intimidated.

“Major Sholto, Sir,” he said, and gave him the open-palmed salute. “Captain Wats—“

“Watson, yes. Excellent work with the American.” Sholto interrupted, brusquely. He turned to the private, still holding the box, and nodded his head toward the back of the ambulance. “Continue, soldier.”

“Th-thank you, Sir,” Watson stammered, the interruption and subsequent compliment throwing him off-kilter. “But, about the American – the patient will need room, Sir, and this additional cargo—“

“Is an efficient use of space, Captain.” Sholto’s blue eyes focused on the doctor, unflinching, practically daring a retort.

Watson licked his lips, nervously. “It’s a danger to the patient, Sir. He’s in a very delicate state and if the road gets rough, and these boxes fall...I mean, who knows what’s in these boxes?”

“ _I_ know what’s in them.”

_Steely-eyed arsehole…_

Watson waited for an explanation, but when one never came, he carried on. “Well, whatever is in them Sir, my patient won’t do well if he takes a box to the head.”

“Yes, I expect you’re feeling particularly sympathetic to anyone with a headache just now.” Major Sholto said, pointedly.

_Shit…_

Considering the red in Watson’s eyes, it wasn’t a difficult leap to make, but he wasn’t pleased to know that Sholto was aware of this fact.

“Now: the contents of the boxes are confidential, they are not to be opened or disturbed for any reason.” Sholto then attempted to give the slightest hint of a smile, “As for your patient, I assure you, he will be safe. I’m a very careful driver, Captain.”

_Fuck me, it gets worse…_

“Y-you, Sir? You’re…I’m sorry, you’re the driver?”

“Yes.”

“The paperwork said it would be LC Hammond—“

“And I’m telling you that I’ll be driving this patient to Bagram. Problem?”

_Problem? No. Not at all. Who wouldn’t want to joyride with fucking “Monty” Montgomery?_

Watson slowly shook his head, lying his arse off. “N-no, Sir. I’m…honored.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it has nothing to do with you,” Sholto said, and Watson wasn’t sure if the comment was intended to be flip or insulting. Sholto checked the time, and didn’t say another word – he just watched the last of the boxes get loaded into the ambulance, and then took to the driver’s seat. Watson climbed in the back, hanging on to the handholds as they drove away from the motor pool.

Half an hour later, the patient was loaded onto a stretcher, which was tightly secured to the vacant lower stretcher rack. His medical supplies were miraculously stowed around the additional cargo, and once everything was in place, Watson found just enough room to drop the jump seat and strap himself in.

He slapped the wall that separated his compartment from the driving compartment, indicating that he and the patient were ready to move, and the vehicle lurched forward with a predictable groan.

They were on their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> \- [A primer on Camp Bastion’s Military Hospital](http://www.cam.ac.uk/research/news/welcome-to-bastion-warzone-ethnography-with-the-combat-surgeons) and the culture demonstrated by its team of combat surgeons. NOTE: The article’s fine, but the video has some graphic still surgical images (as well as some truly horrific sibilant whistling by the narrator)
> 
> \- As a military base established in an Islamic country, [Camp Bastion is a dry camp](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2808110/End-road-Camp-Bastion-sprawling-British-military-base-Afghanistan-close-eight-years.html) (although, at least at one point, there was a “near-beer” bar on base called “Heroes”).
> 
> \- Yeah, [“Manchester Moonshine”](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1091921/Bootlegger-netted-10m-Manchester-moonshine-factory-jailed.html) is a thing…
> 
> \- More proof that you can learn to do anything on Youtube. If you’ve got a strong stomach, [learn how to suture a laceration here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e1jThI5wbVw) (Graphic images) ! 
> 
> \- Battlefield Ambulance images – [exterior](http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01451/wounded_1451336c.jpg) and [interior](http://www.adrianstomcat.co.uk/LandRover127.htm) (Scroll down to "British Army Land Rover Defender 130 Ambulance").
> 
> \- Brush up on Sholto’s ancestor’s war, the Anglo-Zulu War, [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anglo-Zulu_War). 
> 
> \- Get to know [controversial General “Monty” Montgomery](http://www.armchairgeneral.com/monty-world-war-iis-most-misunderstood-general.htm). 
> 
> \- BONUS RESEARCH FIND: I haven’t had an opportunity to use this in this fic thus far, but I found this [kickass guide to British Military Terminology](http://usacac.army.mil/cac2/cgsc/carl/wwIIspec/number13.pdf), published by the US Military Intelligence Service in 1943, presumably written for American soldiers to understand the British terminology in relation to the American. I’m parking it here for those who might be interested, but I’ve also posted an entry with the link to it on the [“Beyond Wikipedia”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3667824) research page on AO3.
> 
>  
> 
> This was written in response to DemonicSymphony’s prompt to “write a Jolto One-Shot” (so please kindly direct all complaints to him).
> 
> Just so you know, I haven’t read a lot of Jolto stuff out there because I didn’t want to be influenced, so I suspect some of the stuff here may not “toe the line” with fandom’s headcanons for the character, but hopefully it won’t disappoint!
> 
> I plan to release a chapter once every two weeks, always posting on Sunday afternoons. Bookmark to follow, those who follow me on my Tumblr will see a “Follower Tease” posted prior to the posting of a chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> <3   
> vex.


	2. On the Road: Bastion to Dand (137km)

Camp Bastion to Camp Bagram is a little more than 700 km, no Sunday drive during peacetime, much less during a war. During a war, of course, the stakes were higher, and delays inevitable—they’d be lucky return to their own camp before lights out – that is, if they weren’t blown up, attacked by the Taliban or kidnapped for ransom before the day was through. There were a lot of reasons why Highway One was called the Highway to Hell, after all.

As such, Captain Watson kept his goals for the trip simple: 1) to stay alive; 2) to keep the patient alive until Bagram; and 3) to stay the fuck out of Sholto’s way.

Watson quickly discovered that the achievement of one of those things might not be possible without abandoning one (or more) of the others. The moment they’d cleared the base, Major Sholto had punched the accelerator, screaming along the desolate road, and showing no signs of slowing. Watson slapped open the narrow slider window that separated the back of the ambulance from the driver’s cab.

“All due respect, Major, would it be possible to slow down?”

“Feeling carsick, Captain? Perhaps you should have skipped last call.”

_Keep your temper…_

“It’s jarring the patient, Sir.”

Gripping onto the driving wheel, Sholto shrugged. “He can take a little jarring – he’s a soldier!”

“Yeah, an _injured_ one! So can you slow it the fuck down!” One flash of Sholto’s eyes in the rearview mirror made Watson immediately realize his mistake. “I’m only thinking of the patient, Sir.”

“We’re on a very stringent timetable, Captain,” Sholto explained, curtly.

“All due respect, but do you think he cares about your timetable?” The BFA bucked over a rut in the road, and as if on cue, the patient groaned in his sleep. Simultaneously, the jolt sent some of Sholto’s boxes sliding towards the back of the ambulance.

“Dammit. Status on the boxes?”

“Really?” Watson stared at him, incredulous, through the small window. “You’re worried about your bloody _boxes_?”

Sholto gritted his teeth, and shot a menacing look back. “Do watch your tongue, Captain, I am your senior.” he said, but slowly put his foot on the brake. “As you were,” he said, and snapped the window shut.

“Yes, Sir,” Watson said, through the closed window, and turned to the patient, grumbling quietly.

 

 

*****

 

The window slid open.

“Wake up, soldier!”

Watson startled awake, having dozed off in the back of the ambulance. Once the jarring driving had settled into a steady jostle, Edwards, the patient, had slept peacefully, and the steady hum of the heartbeat monitor had led Watson to doze as well. Not the best form for a medical professional, perhaps, but it kept him out of Sholto’s way, at least – and considering the fact that he’d already driven the man spare with criticisms of his cargo and his driving, he certainly wasn’t keen on crossing him again.

“Off for a slash,” Sholto said, and snapped the window shut once more.

Watson checked his patient, swapped out IV bags and opened the rear ambulance doors, letting the sunlight in. He hopped out and stretched, the ache in his back proof positive that the jump seat was not an ideal place for sitting or sleeping, certainly not for hours at a time. Rifle at his side, he scanned the horizon for any incoming threats, but the only person he spotted was Sholto, at some distance. He turned away, giving him privacy.

When he returned, Watson took his turn, and as he did, he found himself musing over Sholto’s unexpected use of slang. “Off for a slash” surely wasn’t an expression befitting a much-lauded British Officer. Then again, just imagining the straightlaced Sholto on a battlefield, formally excusing himself to piss mid-battle made Watson snort even louder. With a smile, John pulled up the zip on his trousers and hurried back before His Nibs could nip at his heels.

 

 

*****

 

 

With his patient still sedated, Watson had little to do but focus on the road behind them, the small square of receding pavement framed in the BFA’s rear window. It was a continuous sprawl of asphalt, a two-lane highway that in and of itself could have been anywhere in the world, with a civilised white stripe down the centre. Except, in this place, when that stripe was painted, the workers who did it had to be escorted by armed guards to protect them from Taliban attack.

Thus far, the road had been relatively quiet, but that hadn’t prevented Watson from playing “Taliban, Not Taliban” with every passing vehicle. Earlier, he’d chided himself for profiling what turned out to be a father out for a drive with his six children.

_Still: just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you…_

Case in point, the Jeep currently coming up fast behind them. Older vehicle, maybe twenty years old, not military – civilian, painted an attention-grabbing yellow. Five Afghan men inside wearing _shalwar kameez_ , the loose trousers and long shirt common to the region. What caught Watson’s attention were their expressions, which were tense, and the fact that at least one of the passengers had a rifle tucked at his side. The firearm’s barrel stuck up beside his knee, and the passenger kept his hand on it as they drove closer.

Watson kept his eye on them as he opened the slider window.

“You seeing this in your rearview, Major?”

“The offensively bright bumblebee behind us?” Sholto affirmed, “That I do.”

“Front seat passenger’s armed, you see that?”

From the driver’s cab, Sholto hummed. “Not exactly trying to hide it is he?”

“Orders?” Watson’s fingers reached for his own firearm, and he knelt at the rear window, studying vehicle behind them.

The sound of the Watson’s weapon strap playing against the gun barrel carried to the front seat, provoking a raised eyebrow. “My goodness. Itchy trigger finger, Captain?”

“No, Sir,” Watson said, his voice tense as the Jeep approached. “Just staying alert.”

“Stand down, Captain,” Sholto said. “For two reasons.”

“But Sir—“

“Number one, ambulances do not engage the enemy.”

The man in the Jeep moved the rifle to his lap, and Watson shouldered his gun, warily. “Major...”

Sholto charged on with his recitation. “Number two, not all Afghanis with guns are the enemy. Look at the rifle’s muzzle, Captain.”

Watson tipped his gun down and leaned in to the window, seeing the large holes that were drilled into the tip of the passenger’s gun. “It’s got a muzzle block on it, so what?”

“That’s a very specific muzzle block, the mark of an AMD-65, which is a shortened, folding stock Hungarian version of the Kalashnikov. Last year, the Americans distributed thousands of those particular guns,” Sholto said, as his foot slowly braked, “to Afghan Police Officers.”

The ambulance pulled over just far enough to allow the yellow Jeep to pass them. Watson moved to the slider window and through the windshield, he watched them drive past. He lowered his rifle, but raised his objection. “Sir, they weren’t wearing uniforms!”

“The Afghan Police aren’t all uniformed, Captain,” Sholto chastised.

“Still,” Watson said, feeling his confidence erode, “How can you be sure? A policeman’s gun can easily get to the general population, you know.”

Sholto exhaled, exasperated. “Did they fire on us, Captain?”

Watson cut his eyes away from the slider window. “No. Sir.”

“Then we can’t assume they're the enemy.” The Major accelerated to their former speed, and continued his lecture. “Look, I know the action you’ve seen has always been in active combat zones, and the work you did getting First Lieutenant Edwards out of the shit was commendable. But most of this war is being fought in civilian areas, and you simply cannot raise a gun to every Afghan citizen you come across, are we clear?”

Watson’s temper flared, and he flexed his jaw–

_Privileged poncy arse, when were YOU last in the shit?_

-and bit back the disrespectful words. “Crystal, sir,” he said, falling into line. Still, he kept his rifle close at hand. An attitude like Sholto’s could get them all killed, and Watson, for one, wasn’t going to take any chances.

 

 

*****

 

 

Less than two hours into the trip, the BFA stopped with a lurch. An outburst of mild profanity came from the cab up front, but by the time Watson had slid the window open, Sholto was already out of the driver’s seat. The door was ajar and through the window, Watson could see that the bonnet was up.

He checked in with Edwards, his patient, who’d woken when the ambulance had come to a full stop. He reassured the boy that they’d only stopped for car trouble, and he switched him to a new drainage bag before exiting the back of the ambulance to see if he could help the Major with whatever was going on under the bonnet. He still felt stung by the Major’s earlier words, but engine trouble was something they really couldn’t afford as they approached Kandahar. It was in all their best interests for the Captain to lend a hand.

“Everything alright?”

Sholto jerked his head towards the radiator. “Engine’s running hot. Between the temperature and that last hill. I figured I’d let it cool off.”

The temperature had apparently also made an impact on Sholto. Sometime since their last stop, he'd removed both his combat shirt and his body armour, leaving Watson’s superior in nothing but a very thin, very tight, tan t-shirt above the waist. The idea of a Sholto, any Sholto, appearing in any way out of a regulation uniform was shocking, unthinkable, outrageous, and yet there it was – Sholto’s tanned biceps flexing right before his eyes. Watson felt an unwelcome stir…

_For fuck's sake…not NOW, and most certainly not HIM…_

Even worse than this realization was the realization that Watson wasn’t the only one with observational skills.

“Problem, Captain?” Sholto’s tone was clipped, his expression impossible to parse.

Watson was immediately rattled, and directed his attention to the sky, anywhere away from Sholto’s guns. He stammered out a relatively coherent response: “The uh…the sun’s barely up yet. If the engine’s hot now, we’re in for a long haul. Do we have any coolant?”

Sholto squinted, slowly, but returned his attention to the engine. “No, but we’ve got 40 litres of water for the trip. More than enough to throw a bit in the engine.”

Watson nodded sharply, remembering seeing two jerrycans in the back of the van. “Yes, Sir. I’ll get some, shall I?”

He retreated to the back of the BFA, less out of a sense of duty than a desire to get his stammering self well out of sight. In his absence, Edwards seemed to have drifted off once more, leaving Watson free to collect the water and collect himself in private.

After all, all things considered, this was a totally normal response. He was a healthy male, and it had been a long time since he’d last…well, since he’d last. In other words, this was just a reflex, a glitch, his body’s automatic reaction to stimulus, nothing more. It had nothing to do with Sholto, for fuck’s sake. It could have been anybody with a well-cut muscle, really. Anyone.

_But it had been well-cut, hadn’t it?_

“Get it together, Watson…” Watson huffed out, under his breath, and picked up a jerry can just as a cry came from out from under the bonnet, followed by another outburst of profanity, far less mild than before.

“Shit…” Watson put down the can, picked up his medic bag, and hustled to the front of the truck.

“It’s nothing,” Sholto said, looking a little shocked, a rag and the radiator cap still in his hand. His right forearm, tanned and healthy just moments before, was now pink and angry-looking. “I-I should have waited longer before opening the radiator.”

Watson advanced, letting the bag fall to his feet and brought Sholto’s arm to him, his “glitch” forgotten in the presence of a medical crisis. “Begging your pardon, Major, but steam burns aren’t ‘nothing’ – they’re nasty little bastards that hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, it’s likely to blister!”

“So let it! If it does, I’ll just pop them and slap a plaster on ‘em!” Sholto shouted, irritated, pulling his arm away. “Now where’s that water?”

“No,” Watson said, with a shake of his head. He took Sholto’s hand firmly, pointing at the injury. “Blistering will mean the burn has gone beyond the top surface of your skin, which will mean that you have a second-degree burn. You pop them and—“

“I’ll be FINE,” Sholto interrupted.

Watson continued, undeterred, his own irritation rising, and talked over him. “—you’ll get an INFECTION, and frankly, I don’t care to watch you fester for the rest of this trip, _Sir_.”

Sholto held his gaze, trying to decide between escalating the fight or acquiescing to medical care. With a deep sigh, he stopped struggling and thrust his arm towards John, pointedly. “You medics have such bloody god complexes, don’t you?”

“I’m not a medic, I’m a doctor,” Watson said, a touch smugly. He lifted his chin towards the door well. “Sit,” he said, and was surprised when Sholto reluctantly relented.

_Small victories…_

Watson quickly lined up the necessary medical supplies – gauze, antiseptic, antibiotic cream, instant cold pack – along the dashboard. “You’re one to talk, anyway,” he murmured, deftly cracking the ice pack in half, massaging the contents until it became properly cold.

“Pardon?”

“About god complexes. Considering your own reputation.” He placed the ice pack on Sholto’s arm, and the touch of cold against his inflamed skin made the Sholto inhale, sharply.

Watson raised an eyebrow. “That hurt?”

“Not really.”

“Liar.”

“Some of us are made of sterner stuff, Captain.”

Watson ignored the retort, and timed three minutes on his watch before removing the ice pack and cleaning the wound, applying a thin coating of antibiotic ointment over the skin before bandaging the area. Once bandaged, he put the ice pack on top of the bandage. “Put this on for intervals of three to five minutes, until it’s no longer cold, yeah?

Sholto sighed heavily. “Fine.”

Watson continued, undeterred. “Any trouble breathing?”

“What? No.”

His fingers gripped Sholto’s wrist, and found his pulse strong. “Feeling dizzy at all?”

“Oh, Christ, you’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Sholto said, sarcastically. “Let me tell you again: I’m absolutely fine, Doctor, and I’m only letting you ‘play doctor’ to get you off my back. Now, can we please get on with it and get the actual patient to his base?”

Watson’s mouth tightened. “Right after I get you something for the pain.”

“Don’t need it. It doesn’t hurt.”

“It will.”

“Captain, need I remind you of my rank? We’re done here,” Sholto said, in a flat, measured tone that Watson immediately recognized as one he often used himself, the calm before the storm. “Now gather your things and attend to the boy while I attend to the radiator. We need to get back on the road.”

And that’s precisely where they were, six minutes later, with both men feeling slightly the worse for wear and both nursing unexpected wounds.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not exactly hitting it off, are they? ;-p
> 
> Never fear, dear readers, and when in doubt, consult the tags. This is a slow burn fic, with all the gorgeous frustrations that come with it! Sholto and Watson are both stubborn and repressed as fuck, and that’s what makes this pairing so delicious.
> 
> Speaking of which, I realized this week that in a lot of ways, Sholto is the anti-Victor (at least in relation to my Victor, who is wildly non-canonical). No wonder he’s been a challenge to write!
> 
>  
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> \- This week’s [Follower’s Tease](http://privatelyvex.tumblr.com/post/141368533239/chapter-2-of-the-jolto-fic-war-is-hell-will-post)
> 
> \- [The dangers of Highway One](http://thediplomat.com/2015/12/next-stop-jalalabad-traveling-on-one-of-the-worlds-most-dangerous-roads/) – different sections of the road are considered more dangerous than others, but they’re all part of the same road. [No wonder Captain Watson is paranoid](http://atimes.com/atimes/South_Asia/JJ24Df03.html)…
> 
> \- Here’s what the boys are wearing – [front view](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/ad/British_Army_Soldier_in_Full_Kit_in_Afghanistan_MOD_45152579.jpg) and [back](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/ec/British_Army_Soldier_in_Full_Kit_in_Afghanistan_MOD_45152581.jpg).
> 
> \- Learn more about [the AMD-65](http://atwar.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/10/26/one-poor-choice-in-arming-the-afghans-and-its-repercussions/?_r=0) (and it's [muzzle brake](https://blackcreekarmory.com/product/amd-65-muzzle-brake-hungarian/)). 
> 
> \- [The care and treatment of steam burns](http://www.wisegeek.com/how-do-i-treat-a-steam-burn.htm) (and why Sholto really should listen to Watson about [not popping those blisters](http://cchealth.org/column/2013-0123-healthy-outlook.php))
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and comments are always welcome! If you're going to 221BCon, I'll see you there! This fic will update FRIDAY MORNING _DURING_ THE CON, on April 1st! (No fooling!)  
>  <3  
> vex.


	3. On the Road: Dand to Jaldak (239km)

 

“Was there shouting earlier, or did I dream that?”

Farther down the road, in the back of the BFA, the Yank had woken up. He was still in a fair amount of discomfort, but he was hungry, which was always a good sign. Watson cracked open one of the 24-Hour Ration Packs – Menu 14 had a fruit puree that he thought would be kind to the boy’s stomach. He was still weak, so Watson opened the packet and give him sips of water, steadying the medical equipment when the ambulance hit the inevitable rut in the road. Halfway through the meal, Edwards had asked his question.

Watson nodded uncomfortably, cutting his eyes to the closed slider window. “Actually, yes, there was…shouting.”

“Trouble on the road?” Even as injured as he was, Edward’s muscles still tensed at the thought of engagement with the enemy.

“No, no, no,” Watson reassured him. “Nothing like that. We’ve been lucky so far. No, the driver and I just had some words. Let’s put it this way: some patients aren’t as reasonable as you.”

“The driver is a patient?”

“The driver is an arsehole. He also ranks above me, so it’s a little tetchy.”

“What happened?”

Watson hesitantly related the events surrounding the steam burn, and the subsequent quarrel.

Edwards shook his head. “I had a commander like that. Never wanted to admit he was capable of being hurt. Some macho thing, I guess.”

Watson snorted. “It’s an idiot thing. Denying pain doesn’t help anyone. Speaking of which,” He said, deftly shifting gears, “You doing okay, painwise?”

He managed a weak smile. “Could be worse, but I wouldn’t say no to more meds.”

With a quick nod, Watson adjusted the morphine drip and binned the now-empty fruit packet. As Edwards closed his eyes, Watson turned his attention to the Yank's various bandages, peeling back the gauze to check on the healing, letting out a satisfactory hum as each wound’s progress was confirmed. He swabbed them clean, replacing old bandages with fresh ones, and Watson assumed that the morphine had eased the lad into a pleasant sleep until he suddenly spoke again, his voice drowsy.

“Get it together, Watson,” Edwards quoted, with a hazy smile, eyes still closed. “Wasn’t that what you said? He really riled you up, didn’t he?”

 _Fuck._ Watson froze. He remembered his return to the back of the ambulance, sweating from the sight of Sholto’s well-cut biceps.

“I…thought you were asleep.”

“Just now?” Edwards said, opening his eyes. “Yeah, you thought I was then, too.”

Watson shook his head, feeling the need to deny something but not knowing exactly what to deny. What had he actually done? He’d been flushed and flustered, but they were in the middle of a bloody war zone, after all, he had nothing to hide. “Moment of weakness, I suppose. The Major had just injured himself and—

“No he hadn’t,” Edwards interrupted. “You came back here and said ‘get it together’ _before_ the guy up front started shouting.”

Watson opened and closed his mouth for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. Was this kid actually trying to _out_ him? He turned, sharply. “No, you’re mistaken. It’s not surprising, morphine can mess with a patient’s perception of time.”

Edwards smirked. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.”

“That _is_ it, soldier,” Watson said firmly. “Now try and get some actual rest, alright? You’re doing much better, but you’re not out of the woods entirely yet.”

Edwards nodded, and dutifully closed his eyes. Watson resisted the urge to jack up his morphine, just to avoid more questions.

He exhaled, loudly. This trip was getting longer with every passing second…

*****

 

 

The water levels were still dropping, but faster than before. Sholto and Watson called an unspoken truce while they tried to locate the leak in the coolant system. After a little digging, they located the source – a heater hose with some small pinholes and cracks that could easily be replaced in Bagram. But for now…

“Any sealant?”

“Negative. Anything in medical supplies we could use to seal?”

“We’ve got medical grade tubing, but it’ll melt at engine temps. Maybe tape?”

“It’s alright, I’ll just keep an eye on the meter,” Sholto gritted, kicked the ground at his feet, all yellow dust, scrub and rocks.

Aside from the occasional abandoned car, the hills on the horizon were the only break from the long stretch of the road ahead and rocks and sand all around. It was lonely, but they’d both rather be lonely than have the kind of company that all too often was found on this road.

Sholto and Watson hefted the remaining water cans into the back of the BFA, Sholto wincing as he lifted, the burned skin on his arm now taut under pressure. Watson bit his tongue – for now.

“We’ll have to make a few more unscheduled stops,” Sholto said, “but we should have enough water to get there.”

Watson did some quick calculations. “At this rate, barely, especially if the leaks keep getting worse. Certainly won’t leave much water for us or for the patient. And if we run into the insurgents—”

“I’m not worried about insurgents,” snapped Sholto, with a shrug. “I’m just focused on getting there and back quickly. We’ll find water along the way.”

“Oh yeah?” Watson held up his hands, as if to showcase the less-than-populated nature of their surroundings. “So we’ll just pull into a petrol station, then? Maybe you could buy us a cherry slush while we’re there?”

The sarcasm was thick, but Sholto just sighed heavily. “Don’t try to be clever, Captain,” he said, and slammed the bonnet shut. “You’re not that funny.”

Watson felt his temper trip. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just stating a fact.” Sholto said, non-plussed, wiping his hands on a shop towel he’d retrieved from the driver’s cab.

Watson’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at Sholto for any evidence that the man was actually taking the piss, but found none. He licked his lips and an angry smile followed. “First off,” he said, “I _am_ funny—“

Sholto threw the towel back into the cab and turned, an amused expression on his face. “Terribly sorry - did I hit a nerve?”

Watson’s first impulse was to let his fists show the bastard exactly how funny he could be - but then the words “court” and “martial” surfaced in his brain and so he chose a different approach.

Watson crossed his arms across his chest. “All due respect, Major, but there are 100 billion nerves in the human brain. Frankly, it would be impossible for a man as abrasive as you to just hit one.”

Even said in anger, it was over the line. Watson knew this, the moment the words left his mouth, and they hung there in the air for one nervous moment. When the other man’s reaction finally did come, however, it threw Watson was completely off-guard, because Sholto?

He _laughed_.

He laughed a loud, brash bark that seemed to come out of nowhere, a laugh that was instantly genuine, and at the same time, so completely unexpected from this cardboard cut-out of a soldier. Sholto’s eyes flashed, mischievous, and he gestured at Watson, as if his point had just been proven before turning to get into the driver’s cab.

“See? Now _that_ was funny.”

 

*****

 

 

The water situation went from bad to worse – and the two men argued about whether they should use the water they had left to return to Bastion.

“Right now, we have enough water to get us home, Major,” Watson argued.

“And we have _nearly_ enough to get to Bagram,” countered Sholto.

In spite of the rising temperature, Sholto had put on his combat shirt and body armor since they'd last stopped, and while Watson didn't miss the distraction of those bare arms, he found he was equally distracted by the light sheen of perspiration that covered his face.

_Christ: focus, Watson..._

Sholto continued to talk. “Captain, I am confident we’ll find a water source. All those do-gooder projects, AFF, Thirst Relief, you can’t drive down an Afghan road these days without running into a bloody well. We will find a village—“

“—or we won’t and we’ll be stranded in the middle of…all this!” Watson lifted his arms, pointing to the scrubby, sandy land around them.

“For god’s sake, man, are you a soldier or a nervous old woman? We can always use the comms if we need to. The Yanks owe us a favor, anyway – this is their transport, after all.“ Sholto walked away, irritated at Watson’s resistance and pulling uncomfortably at the straps of his body armour. “We will stay the course, Captain.”

Watson let his superior’s words wash over him, more concerned with what he was doing than what he was saying. “All due respect, Sir, you’re being stubborn.”

“By staying the course?”

“Yes,” Watson started, lowering his voice and moving towards Sholto, out of earshot of the patient. “Because you’re hurting and won’t admit it.”

“Oh, god, this again?” Sholto broke away, and moved forward to the engine. “Let’s get back on the road, we’re wasting water sitting here.”

Watson stood firm. “Sure thing. Right after I give you a shot.”

He shook his head, a bitter little smile on his face as he pulled down the bonnet. “I’m not in pain.”

Watson advanced. “You wince every time you use that arm. A lidocaine shot will take all of 30 seconds.”

Sholto shook his head again. “Pain builds character, Captain.”

“Pain affects decision-making.”

Sholto furrowed his brow and his mouth tightened, suddenly dangerous. Watson felt a pull, _dammit_ , and that pull got even stronger when Sholto’s voice went low and dark. “It’s curious, Captain,” he said, “18 months in the military, now, and you still haven’t learned to respect your senior officers. I would’ve thought all that business at Sandhurst would’ve set you straight.”

Watson froze.

_Fucking Sandhurst._

“You’ve read my file.”

“I do my homework.”

“Is that why you invited yourself on this mission?”

Sholto shot him a smug smile. “Don’t flatter yourself. I already had business planned in Bagram. This was just a convenient ride.”

“Right,” Watson nodded, his voice edged with disdain. “You and all those boxes. What’s in them, Major?”

“Trust me, soldier: considering your history, you don’t want to know.” Sholto took a long look at Watson and then took a deliberate step closer, making a conscious invasion of the younger man’s personal space. “As for my decision-making skills, I appreciate your apprehension, Captain, but there are more pressing concerns right now.” He smiled then, clearly amusing himself, and he was so close, Watson could feel his breath on his cheek. “I promise, though, as soon as we find a bloody well, I‘ll be more than happy to argue the finer points of pain management with you.”

The very closeness of this man felt like a violation, as did his choice of words, the way he said them - that hitch of a breath before “pain management”, christ - but nothing that had happened was inherently improper, nothing was untoward in his behavior, nothing reportable. The man hadn’t laid a finger on him. And yet…

_He’d read his file._

Watson swallowed, and nodded.

“Bagram’s waiting, Captain,” Sholto said, stepping back towards the driver’s cab. “Best get on board.”

 

*****

 

In the back of the BFA, Edwards and Watson were cloistered in dim light. Theoretically, there were three windows in the back, one on each side of the vehicle and one in the back door -- but the side windows were both blocked by folded stretcher racks, and while the window in the door provided decent light for caring of the patient, it left the rest of the ambulance in shadows.

Edwards was in and out of consciousness, which left Watson alone with his thoughts – thoughts that should have been focused on his patient or on their engine troubles. At the very least, his thoughts should have been on the possibility that the trouble at Sandhurst hadn’t been the only trouble of note in his file – but instead, his thoughts centered entirely on Major Sholto and that unexpected invasion of space.

Perhaps he’d misread some signals. God knows wouldn’t have been the first time. Everyone knew Sholto was incorruptible, a straight-edge Action Man from birth, the very model of a modern…well, Major, anyhow. Watson smiled to himself in the dark, imagining Sholto in a bloody Gilbert and Sullivan opera.

_Fucking hell, I’m going mad…_

Watson’s involvement with men had never been a given. On the occasions when it had happened, it had been as quick and as disorienting as a flash bang: unexpected and disruptive. His choice of partner was often unpredictable, and in that sense, Sholto was an excellent candidate, because, seriously, who the fuck would get bent over a repressed, upper class arsehole like him?

_Only you, Watson._

He tried hard not to think about that tan t-shirt, tight across the man’s broad chest, thin enough to reveal that Sholto didn’t shave – oh, yeah, he’d noticed – but he _wouldn’t_ shave, would he? He was old enough not to feel compelled by fashion. A man like him likely valued tradition over trend, anyway, clearly a Connery man, and beyond whatever public school fagging horrors he most certainly would have experienced, he most likely and most sincerely wouldn’t be interested in men. Even if those public school hijinks _had_ somehow stuck, he most certainly wouldn’t be interested in a lower-ranked chav like Watson.

_…pain management…_

He’d misinterpreted that, he had to have – Sholto couldn’t know about that. If he had known, though, it certainly would have been intended as a taunt, not as a flirtation, because if it had been a flirtation…

_…it hadn’t been a flirtation. Because if it had been…_

Watson let his mind wander on that for a bit. He couldn’t do much more than that, not with Edwards sleeping beside him, not on this tiny ledge of a jumpseat, but his mind went there, and his cock inevitably followed. He coughed, and quietly palmed his trouser front, out of the patient’s line of sight. He knew he should keep his thoughts – and his pants – buttoned up, and he would, but for now, just this external friction was…good, not good enough to actually get off, of course not, but good enough to take the edg—

His efforts were interrupted by a sudden jolt and a hard bounce followed by a painful scraping of metal over rock as the BFA hit another rut in the road, a big one this time: big enough to send some of Sholto’s precious boxes flying to the back of the van. Instinctively, Watson bent his body over Edwards’ head and torso, protecting him, shielding him from airborne cargo.

Once the vehicle hit level land, Watson pounded the wall to the cab with his fist. “Oi!” he shouted.

The slider door snapped open. “Anything broken?”

_Just my train of thought._

“I don’t think so, Sir.”

“Carry on, then.” Slide, snap, the window closed. That was it, no apologies and no questions about the patient.

_Arsehole._

Watson checked the patient’s IV, made sure none of the various connections had been disturbed by the bump. It was only then that he considered the cardboard box now sitting on its side at the back of the van, a part of the Major’s mystery cargo, in the middle of the narrow aisle.

 _Confidential_ , Sholto had said, back at the base.

 _You don’t want to know_ , he’d said, minutes earlier.

Of course Watson had been curious. Tempted, even. But he’d been asleep for part of the trip, and then Edwards had been awake. Even when he slept, the doctor had been distracted, occupied by inappropriate thoughts about his senior officer – but now, opportunity had very nearly landed a box in his lap, and it would be a pity not to acknowledge it.

Watson slid his eyes to the cab door, warily. Carefully, quietly, he stood and picked up the box in question, shifting it in his hands. It was heavier than expected. The box had been well-dented, one corner of the cardboard flattened by its impact with the rear metal doors.

He stole another look at the cab door window. Still shut.

 _Technically,_ Watson reasoned, he hadn’t been the one to disturb it, Sholto had. _Technically_ , it could be argued, that jolt might’ve opened it. For all anyone knew.

He glanced at Edwards, confirming he was, in fact, out like a light, and then Watson carefully peeled back the small flap of crushed cardboard, exposing something, the gleam of stainless steel unmistakable, even in this low light. A familiar metallic plate, teal in color, could be seen, but not read. If he could just…push the flap a little wider, press it open, he could se—

From behind him, the slider window snapped open, “Still want that Slushie, smartarse?”

Watson froze, guilty, and turned to face the window, slowly letting the box slip to the ground behind his back, just as the ambulance pulled to a stop.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END NOTES:
> 
> \- This week's [Follower Tease](http://privatelyvex.tumblr.com/post/142069190127/chapter-3-of-the-jolto-fic-war-is-hell-will-post)
> 
> \- MRE (Meals-Ready-To-Eat) menus are interesting – and you can check out [20 different Vestey Foods 24-Hour Ration Pack menus](http://rations.vesteyfoods.com/ration_packs.asp?ptypeID=8&packID=93) that UK soldiers get to choose from. 
> 
> \- [There are approximately 100 billion (100,000,000,000) neurons in the human brain.](https://faculty.washington.edu/chudler/what.html)
> 
> \- [Thirst Relief](http://thirstrelief.org/donate) and [AFF](http://affhope.org/past-projects/afghan-water-well-project/) are actually quite important to the regions they serve, James.
> 
> \- Do they have Slushies in the UK? If you read [Rabbit](http://archiveofourown.org/works/862734/chapters/1653919), you know that [they do!](http://www.slushpuppie.co.uk/)
> 
> \- What is [Sandhurst](http://www.army.mod.uk/training_education/24475.aspx)? Because of the inconsistencies in translating Watson’s military activities to the 21st century, I’m only guessing here that John would had to have spent some time at Sandhurst for officer training.
> 
> I’m off to 221Bcon, and look forward to seeing you all there! 
> 
> Next chapter on Sunday, April 17th (if I get my taxes off on time, if not, I’ll post on [my Tumblr](http://privatelyvex.tumblr.com/) and will modify this End Note to let y’all know.
> 
> Thanks so much for all your comments, replies and messages to my Tumblr – I’m glad you’re enjoying the fic!
> 
> <3  
> vex


	4. On the Road: Jaldak

 

“Told you so.”

Just off the main road, Sholto had actually found what appeared to be a working well, built by an overseas charitable organization in cooperation with an Afghan NGO, according to the plaque embedded in its base.

He was predictably smug. “I’m not sure what it is, but do-gooder charities just can’t resist building wells. It’s chronic. They’re everywhere.”

Watson’s relief at finding a water source very nearly outweighed his irritation with Sholto’s attitude. “You know, wells _can_ have a profound benefit on people’s lives, Major, I don’t understand why you’re so opposed to them.”

“Look around you, Captain – can you tell me who is benefitting from this very pricey project?”

“Well, you, for one, me for another – and the Yank!” He protested, but it wasn’t hard to see Sholto’s point. There was nothing here but scrub and shifting sand -- although Watson could imagine it serving other travelers, perhaps a nomadic Kochi encampment now and again. He moved to the lever at one end of the concrete block. “That’s assuming it works, of course.”

“Oh, it will. Those charitable workers are quite committed. Get it started,” Sholto commanded. “I’ll grab the empty,”

Watson pumped the lever, cautiously at first, waiting for the reluctant pull of the piston inside before he let himself get hopeful. But the drag was there, and relieved, he put his shoulder into it. By the time Sholto returned with one of the empty cans, water had begun to flow from the tap into the cement basin below.

Watson cheered, and Sholto leaned his head under the tap, enthusiastically drinking the surprisingly cold water. Watson slowed on the lever for one…long…minute as the other man bent, the water wetting his shirt, making it cling to his skin, outlining taut muscle, his mouth gaping as it filled to overflowing—

The water stopped, and Sholto jerked his head up quickly. “Captain?”

_Shit._

Watson scrambled to resume his effort, to justify the interrupted water flow. “Sorry, Sir…the lever wasn’t…seems to be working now…”

“Yes, funny how well it works when it’s properly used.” Sholto punched the last two words, and stood upright, dripping from the waist up. He ran a wet hand through his hair, and eyed Watson sharply. “Would you like a taste?”

_Oh, fucking hell…_

Watson wet his lips, and lifted his chin, pairing it with a half smile, for maximum deniability. “I’m…sorry, Sir?”

Sholto shifted gears. “Water, Captain,” he said, gesturing simply to the basin below, the spell broken. “Run and get your canteen, and we can fill it.”

Watson nodded, exhaled, and did as he was told, grateful for the exit. He was certain he hadn’t misread any part of that exchange, that Sholto had intentionally put on a show for him at the well. Watson figured his file must contain something to indicate not only his preferences, but considering the “proper use” gibe, perhaps even his interests.

So, was Sholto just taking the piss, or was there intention behind it? He hadn’t shifted his gears until Watson had pushed slightly back. Perhaps Watson wasn’t the only one interested in maintaining deniability?

Back at the well, a still-damp Sholto had resumed his military posture and bearing.

Watson filled his canteen with water, with Sholto’s assistance. He cautiously initiated conversation. “You…sure this is safe?”

“Hmm?”

“The water. It tastes alright?”

Sholto grinned and took a pull from Watson’s canteen before handing it back to him. “Tastes like the blood, sweat and tears of an earnest Labourist, Captain.”

_…and we’re back to arsehole…_

Watson took a long drink to avoid saying anything that could get him in trouble, the cold water heaven on his lips.

“Look,” Sholto said, drying his face and hands with his combat shirt before pulling it on over his wet t-shirt. “The engine needs a rest and you probably need food.”

… _because senior officers **never** get peckish, apparently?_

“With the water source, this seems like our best opportunity for a break. We’re at the halfway mark, at any rate.” Sholto strapped into his body armour and slung his rifle over his shoulder. “You watch over the Yank, I’ll go up on the hill and see if we have company.”

Watson gave a single nod and Sholto proceeded to hike up the ridge, to look over the valley below. They both knew they’d been lucky so far, but that luck was unlikely to last. He watched Sholto climb, allowing himself to admire the man’s easy athleticism.

_Impressive, really, considering his age._

He’d estimated Sholto was at least a decade, maybe even a decade and a half older than him, which made his response to the man all the more interesting. Attraction to a man may have been rare for Watson, but attraction to an _older_ man, especially one this rugged as well as one that could theoretically have him court-martialed, was unheard of.

Watson kept his eye on Sholto until he’d disappeared over the ridge and then he quickly moved to the back of the BFA, to further examine the damaged box. His curiousity had only increased after Sholto’s warning, after the reference to Sandhurst. If this was what he thought this was all about, if this was some sch—

“Hey, why are we stopped?”

_Shit._

“Edwards! You’re up!” Watson slid the box away from him, once again, trying his best not to look guilty. “Good news – The Major found a working well. He’s checking the perimeter and we thought we might take a quick break from the road while we’re near a water source. Are you hungry?”

And so Watson busied himself with chatter as he pulled out the MREs and considered what Edwards might be able to stomach from the available options. Sholto’s damaged cargo taunted him from the edge of the ambulance…

Sholto returned, and declared the spot safe. He heated the meals while Watson fed Edwards what little food his stomach could tolerate. The three of them chatted with the back of the BFA open, letting the sun shine in on the injured soldier. He was in good spirits, all things considered, and was looking forward to returning to the base, anticipating a return home upon proper recovery.

“Your parents are quite keen on getting you home quickly,” Watson said, “Good on them for having the wherewithal to make it happen.”

Edwards had the decency to look somewhat abashed. “The perks of political service. Payment, I suppose, for a childhood lived out in the public eye.” He nodded his head towards the cup of water resting on one of the boxes near the bed.

Watson swiveled the straw and held it out for him to drink. “They must have been thrilled you joined the army.”

Edwards rolled his eyes. “They hit the roof – and that was before Phillip came home.”

“Phillip?”

“Stepbrother. Bomb went off in Kabul, they thought he was fine, but it turned out he’d gotten a traumatic brain injury.”

Watson nodded. TBIs were pretty much the signature wound of war in the middle east – get too close to an explosion and even with a helmet your brain gets jostled, sloshed back and forth within your skull, causing all sorts of shit, including axional shearing. Pretty tough to diagnose without the right equipment, so docs and medics had to rely on patients reporting symptoms, which didn’t always happen.

“So, yeah,” Edwards said, his fingers playing along the edge of the stretcher.  “You can imagine my parents’ reaction to me still being over here, once he came home.”

Sholto paused mid-chew. “When was this?”

“A little over a year ago?” Edwards sighed. “Apparently he’s not adjusting well.”

Watson touched the lad’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s why all the fuss over me,” Edwards explained, and gestured to his bandaged body. “When this happened, knowing my parents? I’m sure all hell broke loose.”

“I can only imagine,” Sholto said, binning the remains of his meal. “I mean, if you were my son—“

Watson looked up, surprised. “You have a son?”

“Two, actually. Twins.” Sholto replied, with a quiet smile, and for the first time this trip, Watson thought the man actually seemed pleasant. Sholto turned back to the Yank. “They’re both still too young to serve their country, but were either of them in your place, god forbid, come hell or high waters, I’d get ‘em home.”

He stood up then, and busied himself with rearranging and securing the cargo.

Watson watched him, and tried to picture him with a child. He didn’t know why he was so surprised that Sholto had children – the man was certainly old enough, and no doubt his family would’ve insisted on children to ensure the future of the Sholto lineage – but he just hadn’t imagined the man to be someone’s - _two_ someones', apparently - father.

Watson’s eyes dropped to the man’s left hand. His ring finger was bare, so…divorced?  Widowed? Maybe he’d never married? It was the 21st century after all, a man didn’t _need_ to be married to have kids – but then again, a family as traditional as his likely was would demand indisputably legitimate offspring.

Edwards asked for the small bag that contained his personal effects, the things fished out of his pockets and whatever remained in his pack after the skirmish and survived the trip back to Bastion. Watson handed him the bag and watched Edwards carefully remove a small notebook. He anticipated his next request, taking a pen out of his own pack and holding it out for Edwards to use.

“Should make for prettier pictures here than in hospital,” Watson remarked.

Edwards took the pen and shook his head. “All depends on how you look at it,” he said, and began to sketch.

Watson had originally discovered the notebook just days ago, during the man’s surgery prep. Flipping through it, he’d found a series of not-terrible drawings, drawings of Afghanistan, of his base, of the soldiers in his unit, of an Afghani advertisement for Coca-Cola. Today, apparently, would be his rendering of an Afghani mountain range from the back of the BFA.

While Edwards sketched, Sholto and Watson tidied up and prepped for the remaining leg of the journey. Watson topped off the petrol tank and warily watched as Sholto discovered the damaged box. He made a small noise of disapproval as he looked it over, and whisked it away to the driver’s cab without comment.

_Dammit._

At the fountain, Watson filled up the jerrycan Sholto had brought earlier with water, and from the back of the ambulance, Sholto threw him the remaining empty, at a pretty good speed. There was power in that arm…

“Lacrosse, or crew?” Watson asked, with a grin. It was small talk, yes, but being friendly was not the same as flirting, at least that’s what he told himself. At any rate,  Sholto was still an arsehole, so what harm could it do?

Sholto scowled. “Bite your tongue. Rugby was my game _._ ”

“Center?”

“Forward.”

“Tight five?”

“No, flanker.”

“Should’ve known,” Watson said, brashly. “I was a number 9.”

Sholto walked over to the fountain, listing off his impressions of Watson’s position. “Number 9, also known as a Scrum Half: scrappy, loud, always spoiling for a fight – _I_ should have known.” He picked up one of the full cans with his good arm, his eyes locked to Watson’s. “Quite enjoyed flattening you lot back in the day.”

_Dear God above…_

“I’m sure we enjoyed it, as well,” Watson volleyed back, and willed himself not to blush. He picked up the other can and walked it to the front of the BFA.

Sholto took his jerrycan to the boot, and returned with Watson’s rifle. “Soldier,” he said, and tossed the weapon to Watson, who caught it with ease. “How about you check out below, see what we’re driving into?”

Watson’s eyes cut to Edwards.

Sholto held up a hand. “I’ll watch the lad. You go.”

Watson was immediately suspicious, unsure if this was a reward or some sort of a test. Maybe it was just that the old man just didn’t feel like hiking all the way up the hill again. Either way, it felt good to heft the rifle in his hand, to be out of the ambulance and to feel like a soldier again.

“Yes, Sir,” Watson said, and tightened his armour before heading up the ridge.

 

 

*****

 

His last venture out had been the night raid where the Yank had been injured, in the southwest region of the country around Bastion. It was greener there, and between the trees and the night all around them, he’d felt confident in their cover. It had still ended in shit, but it had been shit they’d survived, a battle they’d won, for whatever that meant in this war.

Here, there was no cover. Here, he was alone, at the edge of a desert, in the broad daylight. Granted, this time, he was not looking for a fight – there was no mission here but to get the lad back to his people. A well-intentioned plan, but foolhardy, and for the thousandth time this trip, he wondered what the hell good it did for Queen and Country. Goodwill with the Americans, certainly, but there had to be more to it than that.

As he approached the crest of the ridge, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. A surge of adrenaline and he readied his rifle, just in time to see the tail-end of a sodding lizard darting under a rock.

He exhaled, feeling foolish.

_Foolish is better than dead. Carry on._

His boots kicked up dust as he walked, the sun filtering through the particles. It was quiet here, but for the whistling of a crested lark, a common enough companion in the desert. Watson had read about them, a smart species of desert bird that followed humans, hoping to feast on the insects disturbed by their footsteps. He wondered if he or Sholto had been the first to attract the presence of this lark… 

…and then moments later, at the top of the hill, he forgot about the lark entirely.

 

 

*****

 

 

“You need to listen to me,” Watson insisted, his voice low and succinct. “There’s a red pickup truck stopped on the main road, full of Afghanis.”  

Sholto finished topping off the engine with the water from his canteen. “So what, Captain? We’re in bloody Afghanistan, after all.”

Watson released the bonnet and pressed it down quietly.

“Major: they’ve got _shovels_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Shovels?_ Why is John so freaked out by shovels? (Hint: He definitely should be). Stay tuned for next week to find out why (and what they’re gonna do about it)!
> 
> ALSO: Everybody say hey to **[BakerStMel](http://bakerstmel.tumblr.com/)** , who was generous enough to make a blanket offer to Beta to a roomful of fic writers at this year’s 221Bcon! Of course I took her up on it, and of course she was gracious and really helped make this chapter so much better. Hopefully she’ll agree to Beta future chapters as well!
> 
>  
> 
> END NOTES:
> 
> \- Follower Tease – [Rugby is Sholto’s game](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/post/142949977281/chapter-4-of-the-jolto-fic-war-is-hell-will-post). Wanna see the tease when it posts next time? [Follow me on Tumblr](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/) (but be warned: I do participate in (tagged) Penis Friday postings)!
> 
> \- I can’t guarantee that [the water from this well](http://unanyc.org/news/archive/2008/20080313_afghan.jpg) tastes like the blood, sweat and tears of an earnest Labourist, but this was the well I used as my visual cue… 
> 
> \- As anyone who has read a paper in the last 15 years knows, [TBI is, unfortunately, a very real and very frightening thing](http://www.military.com/benefits/veterans-health-care/traumatic-brain-injury-overview.html).
> 
> \- I know very little about rugby. Thank goodness for [online sources like this](http://rugbypositions.blogspot.com/), and rugby-savvy fandom friends like **[tearmeopenpourmeout](http://tearmeopenpourmeout.tumblr.com/)** and **[well-spoken-dominatrix](http://well-spoken-dominatrix.tumblr.com/)** , who all helped confirm that my rugby trash talk was accurate! Much hugs to you both!
> 
> \- [Hear the song of the clever crested lark](http://www.british-birdsongs.uk/crested-lark/).
> 
>  
> 
> It was great to see so many folks at the Con, and I feel like there was a definite surge of Jolto and Joltolock fans this year (or maybe it’s just like when you buy a green car and suddenly all you see are green cars, idk)! 
> 
> Thank you for your patience with this slowest of burns – unike Sholto at the well, though, I'll actually _admit_ to enjoying the tease!
> 
> Thanks for reading, commenting and messaging! Chapter 5 will post two Sundays from now, on May 1st. See you then!
> 
> <3  
> vex.


	5. On the Road: Jaldak to Tarnak Wa Jaldak (251km)

The minute Watson said the word “shovels”, Sholto understood.

A truck full of Afghanis in this part of the country wouldn’t just be farmers out for a joyride. This wasn’t fucking Nimraz – no one was bloody _growing_ anything in this desert terrain. Out there, the only two things people dug holes for were graves or bombs, and barring the presence any bodies in the bed of that truck, there was only one option left.

The pickup had only stopped for a moment on the main road when Watson had first seen them, and by the time he’d run up the hill with Sholto, they were pulling away, resuming their journey north on Highway One.

But Sholto had seen enough.

They shadowed the battered red pick-up truck for the next twenty minutes, taking the ambulance over higher terrain to stay above their quarry. Sholto propped open the door between the driver’s cab and the back of the BFA, as Edwards proved surprisingly helpful with navigation. Weak as he was, he could still read a map, and with some firsthand familiarity with this region, he was able to help them find the small paths that allowed them to track the other car without being seen.

At this altitude, and at this distance from the road, there was still enough scrubby brush for some semblance of cover, but they all knew that whatever it was that they were going to do with the red pickup would  have to happen sooner rather than later.  The hills would soon give way to proper mountain terrain, which the BFA was not built to handle -- and most importantly, the lad needed to be delivered to his base. They drove the BFA down the side trail in time with the red pickup, and when it stopped, they stopped.

By the time Watson and Sholto crept up the hill overlooking the highway, the red pickup’s passengers had already exited their vehicle and swarmed an area just at the edge of the road.

“Is that—“

“Of course it is.”

The men below began digging six identical, evenly spaced holes. Left in the back of the pickup were what appeared to be a dozen yellow plastic petrol containers connected to an equal number of harmless looking metal cooking pots – but Watson knew first-hand that what was inside was far from harmless.  

He handed the binoculars back to Sholto, speaking quietly.  “I’ve never seen them out of the ground. Never seen them in the ground, either. Only seen pieces of them, inside soldiers.”

“Cowardly warfare, burying bombs, setting traps. Had enough of it during The Troubles,” Sholto spat. Watson hadn’t realized until then that Sholto had been a part of Operation Banner, battling the IRA. A war fought on city streets, devoid of bloody sand and sweltering temperatures, a war against people who looked just like you…difficult to imagine for a soldier like Watson, who’d been specifically trained and prepped for a middle-eastern conflict.

Minutes later, back in the BFA, the three men brainstormed.

“So, what do you think, soldiers?” Sholto asked, a bit of a challenge in his tone. “What are we going to do about this situation?”

“We’re on a medical mission, Sir, can we eve—“

“I’m well-aware of what the mission is, Captain,” Sholto hissed, “But missions deviate when circumstances change. We have an opportunity here to take action and save lives...unless you think it would be alright to just drive away knowing those IEDs are there.”

“Hell no,” Edwards objected.

At the same time, Watson’s mouth tightened. “Of course not.”

“So, then,” Sholto nodded brusquely, and turned to Watson. “Course of action?”

Watson turned, feeling a bit like a student called out by their professor. “You and I could…grab the rifles, take them all out?”

Sholto shook his head. “We’re too far away."

Edwards spoke up. “You could move closer.”

“And leave you up here? We’re not leaving you alone,” Watson shook his head, “I was nervous leaving you unprotected just a few yards away at the well.”

Edwards did his best attempt at a scowl. “Don’t fucking worry about me.”

“No, the Captain’s right.” Sholto intervened, his voice stern enough to quiet objections. “Were not leaving you alone – and one gun against all of them would be suicide.”

Watson flexed his hand.  “What if we did a drive-by…took out their tires?”

“We’d only get one shot. The driver would head out at first fire,” Sholto said, dismissively. “And that still won’t keep these bombs from being buried.”

Edwards nodded. “Plus, they’d likely shoot us before we even get that one shot in.”

Sholto took offense. “They won’t dare shoot us first, we’re in an _ambulance_ , it’s against the Geneva Convention!”

Watson sighed.  “Major, if you think that lot gives a damn about the Geneva Convention—“

“—they’re soldiers, Captain!”

“They’re terrorists - you think they’re playing by the same rules we are?”

"Speaking of which," Edwards added, "if _we_ go on the attack, will we be breaking the rules of engagement?”

"Yeah, and what happened to 'ambulances don't engage the enemy'?""

Sholto explained, “By planting bombs they’re putting us all in imminent danger; as members of the military, we have the right and a _responsibility_ to engage.”

Edwards and Watson exchanged glances. Sholto was right, and while technically that obligation could be fulfilled by just calling Bagram and having them clean up the IEDs after the fact, there was no guarantee that the EOD would arrive in time to save an unsuspecting driver from getting blown to Kingdom Come.

Edwards spoke up. “Whatever we do, we need to sort out an exit strategy.”

“That’s true, we can’t outrun them, not in an ambulance that overheats every few miles,” Watson agreed, wistfully adding, “Pity we don’t have a bomb of our own…”

There was a pause, and in that pause, Sholto let out another of his barking laughs. He slapped his thighs and pointed at Watson. “Smarter than you look, aren’t you?” 

Watson was simultaneously insulted and pleased to have done something to garner Sholto’s praise. He watched as the man began rooting through the passenger’s seat wheel-well. With a satisfied growl of approval, Sholto held up a small, unmarked cardboard box.

“We may not have a bomb, per se,” he said, opening the box flaps for the other men to see. “But if the Captain here is still in any way decent on the pitch, we can make their bombs, _our_ bomb.”

 

*****

 

The L109A1 was just the British designation for the HG 85, a time fuse-detonated fragmentation hand grenade produced in Switzerland for the Swiss Armed Forces.  Packed with 155 grams of TNT and 1800 fragments, they were powerful, destructive explosives and Major Sholto just happened to have a dozen of them, riding shotgun beside him in the driver’s cab.

“Mind telling me why you have a box full of frag grenades, Major?” 

Sholto was outside the BFA, filling a latex glove he’d swiped from Watson’s medical supplies with dirt. Watson followed him out.

“Again, Captain, you don’t want to know.”

“Maybe I do." 

“Maybe you do. But we’ve both got more immediate concerns right now. ” Sholto handed him the glove. “That feel like a pound to you?”

Watson, confused, did as he was told, weighing it in his hand. “Maybe? I don’t know. Major, what—“

“Hang on,” The Major ran back to the BFA and returned with one of the grenades, placing it in Watson’s free hand. “Now try it. They feel about the same weight?”

“I…guess?” Watson spun as Sholto took both the grenade and the glove from him, weighing them both in his own hands now. Watson continued. “You have to know that even a whole box of grenades might not detonate six IEDs buried in the ground.”

“I know,” Sholto said, adding more sand to the glove and weighing it again in his hand. He grunted favourably and tied the glove tight, holding it aloft. “But a single grenade, deftly thrown into the back of a pickup truck loaded with a dozen _unburied_ IEDs and 12 gallons of petrol? That will make one hell of an explosion.”

Realization dawning, Watson’s eyes locked onto Sholto’s. “You’re mad.”

“Oh, but it will work, you know it will.”

“It’ll kill us all – who even knows how much explosive is in each one of their bombs? An explosion like that could leave behind a crater!”

“The farther you throw, the faster I drive, the safer we’ll be. We can do this.” Sholto’s eyes shone, and he tossed him the glove. “Come on, Number 9.  Show me what you can do.”

 

 

*****

 

They didn’t have much time. They had to sort out the feasibility of Sholto’s plan and execute it before the insurgents finished digging their holes, because once those bombs were buried, so was their plan. That feasibility began with Watson’s ability to get the grenade into the bed of the pickup. 

He knew that regulation rugby balls weighed about a pound – coincidentally, the same weight as an L109A1 frag grenade, and therefore, roughly the same weight as the sand-filled latex glove in his hand - but Watson hadn’t played rugby in years. Back in the day he’d had a good arm, yes, but that was quite a while ago.  

To make matters worse, Sholto had done some math. “If I’m driving at 70 miles per hour – that’s the max this thing will go, that’s…what? A little more than 30 meters per second, average grenade detonation 5 seconds after throw, we’ll be…156 meters down the road at the point of explosion. I’d like us to be at least 200 meters away when the thing blows.”

_For fuck’s sake. He had to be joking._

“Let me get this straight,” Watson said, hoping that saying the plan out loud would make Sholto realize the ridiculousness of his request. “You want me to throw a grenade at a distance of 44 meters out of the back of a speeding ambulance, into the back of a parked pickup truck, while very likely being simultaneously fired upon by Taliban insurgents?”

Sholto nodded, blatantly ignoring the ironic tone in Watson voice. “Yes, and you’ll need to get some lift out of the pass, to make sure it lands squarely in the truck bed.”

“Major,” Watson said, panic rising. “I can’t guarantee you 44 meters.”

“Come now, Captain. The average soldier can throw a grenade of this size 40 meters. Surely you’re at least a bit above average?”

“They’re getting 40 meters while standing on solid ground, not from the back of a BFA going 70mph!”

“Yes. And isn’t it refreshing to be held to a higher standard?”

“Major, this _isn’t_ a game. If I miss—“

Irritated, Sholto interrupted Watson by grabbing hold of his tactical vest and kissing him, crushing their lips together in an unexpected press. More strategic than romantic, the kiss short-circuited Watson’s brain, which, on Sholto’s advance, had initially braced for a fight. He let out a small, surprised noise, but he did not pull back.  

Sholto ended the kiss as abruptly as he’d started it. For a moment, the two just stared at each other, catching their breath.

Watson stared up at him. “Why would you do that?”

“To make the grenade throw the second most dangerous situation you’ll experience today.”

There was a moment before Watson realized that Sholto was actually making a joke. He smirked, and Watson grinned back at him, feeling punchy and slightly shellshocked, his previous panic forgotten in the wake of that kiss.

“You won’t miss, Watson,” Sholto said, nodding at the glove in Watson’s hand before moving back towards the ambulance. “Practice. I’ll call when we’re ready to go”.

 

*****

 

 

Watson stood in the back of the BFA, gripping a handle in the ambulance’s roof as the engine started. Sholto would have to backtrack a mile or so to get up to the kind of speed that would get them out of harm’s way before the grenade detonated the bombs in the back of the pickup. That is,

_…presuming they hadn’t underestimated the firepower of those IEDs…_

_…presuming the frag grenade would actually be powerful enough to set the bombs off…_

_…and presuming that he could actually hit the target._

“You really gonna do this?” Edwards asked. He was securely buffeted by boxes on all sides, and shrouded with body armour, his stretcher behind the closed back door.

“The Major seems to think I can.” The door on Watson’s side of the ambulance was tied open to allow him his throw. He gripped the grenade in his fist until his knuckles went white.

_…but all he was thinking of was that kiss._

The BFA took a bumpy turn and suddenly, they were on asphalt once more. Sholto talked to them through the slider window. “Hang on tight, lads. One mile until the pass, Watson.”

The wind whipped through the back of the ambulance, and Watson moved to the edge, gripping onto the white metal stretcher rack for support, and watching the emptiness of the landscape fall behind them. In just a few moments, if all went well, he’d start a fire that would change the landscape of this place, even if only a little bit. A different kind of surgery, destroying lives to save lives.

The engine whined as the speed increased. Sholto shouted “Here we go!”

Watson pulled the pin, the fly-off lever fully pressed, safe until release. He waited for the bullets to come. He didn’t have to wait long.

_One thousand one._

_One thousand two._

_One thousand three._

Captain Watson threw the grenade.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry-not-sorry for the cliffhanger. ;-p  
>  ~~(If you’re anxious, read the fic summary for reassurance.)~~
> 
> END NOTES:
> 
> \- Follower Tease – My [Tumblr](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/) followers saw a still from [this video](https://www.funker530.com/ied-explosion-flips-mrap-in-afghanistan/), moments before an IED detonated on this Afghan road (MRAP POV – no injuries)
> 
> \- - The L109A1, aka [the HG-85](http://www.militaryfactory.com/smallarms/detail.asp?smallarms_id=435), is part of the [Modern Equipment of the British Army](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Modern_equipment_of_the_British_Army).
> 
> \- [British Rules of Engagement are a point of debate](http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/british-soldiers-resort-to-baiting-taliban-to-beat-rules-of-engagement-8082165.html), apparently. 
> 
> \- [Here are all the reasons why it’s not advisable to use a hand grenade to detonate IEDs](https://www.quora.com/Why-dont-EOD-teams-use-grenades-or-other-explosives-to-set-off-IEDs-to-destroy-them). (Sorry, James!) (Caution: there is a video posted farther down the page at this link of an IED detonation that DOES have casualties. It's not gory, but if you're sensitive, I strongly advise you NOT to play the video.)
> 
>  
> 
> Yanno, for someone who doesn't like writing action, I somehow keep doing it. 
> 
> Big ups to BakerStMel for hanging in there as a Beta -- definitely needed help this week, I'm so glad she was free!
> 
> Also big ups to my husband, who continues to serve as my technical advisor on all things war-related. This week, he reminded me that "rules of engagement" are a thing (very helpful). I should also point out that he and Watson had very similar views of the viability of Sholto's plan...but I went ahead with it anyway. ;-p
> 
> Finally, thank YOU for reading and commenting and such -- your words and kudos really do keep me going!
> 
> See you in two weeks - next chapter posts on Sunday, May 15th!
> 
>  
> 
> <3  
> vex.


	6. On the Road: Tarnak Wa Jaldak

In a film, a moment like this would be shown in slow-motion, the arc of Watson’s arm, the grenade tumbling through the air, the point of impact intercut with shots of Watson’s hopeful face, Sholto’s foot accelerating, the eventual orange-red flare of the detonation. It would be the kind of sequence that summer blockbusters are built on.

But real life wasn't like that.

In real life, no one was granted the luxury of slow motion, and even thought it was five full seconds from throw to explosion, to John Watson, that five seconds felt like the distance from inhale to exhale.

He couldn’t even watch to confirm he’d made the truckbed, instead he simply threw the grenade and then threw himself on the ambulance floor, pulling the door closed behind him and hoping to god that nothing – not bullet, not shrapnel – hit them as they drove past. In the end, his only indication that he’d actually hit the target was the sound of the explosion, a rumble deeper than that of a simple grenade, one that shook the ground and shattered the glass in the BFA’s rear window.

There were cheers, from up front in the driver’s cab, and from the stretcher beside.  

Watson lifted his head, and as he did, small shards of  glass from the window fell out of his hair. He looked up to the stretcher beside him. “You okay, Edwards?”

“Never better!” Edwards grinned, sitting up. “Helluva boom, Doc!”

“Did I hit it?” Watson knew if he hadn’t hit it exactly right, it would mean that there were still some undetonated bombs sitting on the side of the road. He stood up in the still-moving vehicle and yanked the door to the cab open, to address Sholto. “Did it hit squarely?”

Sholto turned, and shot him a devilish look. “Only one way to find out,” he said, and promptly stomped on the brake, bringing the ambulance to a skidding stop.

 

*****

“Bloody brilliant, Number 9.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Once again, Sholto and Watson stood side-by-side, passing the binos between them, but this time they were watching a plume of smoke billow from the place where the red pickup truck had been. The grenade had most definitely hit its target, leaving behind not so much a crater as a scattering of twisted metal, blood and debris strewn across the sand. Watson was pleased to have hit the mark, yes, but he couldn’t help but feel a little sick. It felt significant, beautiful, horrible, complicated. Men had died because he threw a grenade. Men were very likely saved because he threw a grenade. And yet here he was, alive, with the taste of Sholto’s mouth still on his lips, and it wasn’t even noon. Strange days.

Watson looked at Sholto, and wondered if he ever felt conflicted. Likely not: after all, Action Man never cared about Intruder, did he? Sentiment certainly would’ve been something the Sholtos bred out of the line long ago.

_…except if that were the case, how would you explain that kiss?_

Watson had turned it over and over in his mind. He’d never been involved with a superior, never even dated anyone older than himself. Not that a single kiss meant they were involved or dating, but it was still a bit of a thrill. Had Sholto had been sitting up in that cab thinking about him, in the same way he’d been thinking about Sholto for the better part of this trip? He honestly couldn’t imagine it.

Sholto passed him the binoculars, which he then passed on to Edwards, behind them. When they’d pulled over, he and Sholto had propped open the now-shrapnel-studded ambulance doors, so that Edwards might have a proper view of the destruction.

“You think you set ‘em all off?” Edwards asked, lifting the glasses to his eyes.

Watson shrugged. “No way to tell.”

“There might still be unexploded ordinance out there,” Sholto said. “But don’t worry, lad. I’ve already put the call through to camp, the EOD team is enroute.”

“Aren’t you curious, though?” Edwards asked, lowering the glasses. “If I’d thrown that grenade, I’d want to see the site firsthand.” His face was flushed, and Watson immediately checked the monitors. His respiration was a little fast, but certainly that was to be expected. They were all likely experiencing some level of chemical dump after the adrenaline rush of the last few minutes.

“It is a pity we can’t go back,” Watson said, agreeing, but knowing they couldn’t return, not in anything short of a Ridgback PPV. It had been a miracle that the ambulance tires had survived the attack – there was no way they’d fare as well with shrapnel all over the roads.

“Why? You want to bask in your handiwork?” Sholto mused, and peeled back the glass-covered rubber mat from the floor of the ambulance. He shook the glass fragments out into the sand.

“Not really, no,” Watson admitted, watching the smoke slowly dissipate. “But I am worried about UXOs.”

“Let’s say you did go back, and found that some of the bombs were undetonated,” Sholto paused and cocked his head towards Watson. “What would you do?”

There it was again. That challenging tone that set something off in Watson, a desire to achieve, to perform, to prove anyone who doubted or discounted him wrong. Not that he had any experience with bomb disposal, but, he was a trained soldier. He knew protocol just as well as any other officer.

He took a moment to consider before answering. “I’d…take photos of the suspected UXOs, of the scene as a whole, and send them back to HQ. Then I’d count the bodies, and recover any collateral material that might remain.”

Sholto lifted an eyebrow. “Collateral. Such as?”

“Maps, any written material, anything that might be used to identify who these people were, who commissioned them, if we got lucky, maybe where they were going next.”

A small smile crept into the corners of Sholto’s mouth. “Well done, Watson. There is value in reconnaissance.”

Once again, the praise made Watson beam, and his eyes lifted to meet Sholto’s gaze. He hadn’t noticed until then how very blue Sholto’s eyes were, their color made even brighter beside the cloudless desert sky. The moment hardly felt real…so of course Watson had to ruin it.

“You know, if I did go back down there,” he teased, “it would still only be the third most dangerous thing I’ve done today.”

The words were meant to be cheeky, a little harmless flirt to make Sholto laugh, to broaden that small smile, but Watson knew the minute Sholto’s posture straightened that his words had not been received the way they’d been intended.

The man shut completely down. Sholto’s countenance went immediately serious, his smile gone in an instant. His eyes locked on Watson and he shook his head once – the movement small and scolding – before sliding his eyes to Edwards, who, thankfully, was still watching the smoke through the binoculars. Sholto shifted his attention then back to Watson, and glared. When he finally did speak, his words were curt and formal, thick with disapproval. “On second thought, we’d best get back on the road, Captain.”

John frowned. “Are you sure, Sir, I tho—“

“Quite sure.” Sholto snapped, and handed him the rubber mat. “Replace this.”

“Major,” Watson started, fumbling, awkward.  “I certainly didn’t intend to—“

Sholto cut him off for a second time. “Your intentions, Captain,  are certainly none of my concern,” he said, stiffly. “Replace the mat and get your patient in order. We leave as soon as I top off the engine.”

Sholto grabbed a jerrycan and left.

Watson paused for a moment, dropped the mat on the ground, and proceeded to follow the Major to the front of the BFA.

 

****

“Okay, clearly, something just hap—“

Sholto interrupted him once again. “Captain, you need to lower your voice.”

“I’ll lower my voice if you let me get a goddamn sentence out without interrupting, all right?”

“I think you need to watch yourself.” Sholto said, and lifted the bonnet. His voice was low, and despite Watson’s anger, it still sent a shiver.

“Fine. I’ll lower my voice, if you’ll explain what happened back there.” Watson gestured towards the back of the vehicle.

“What happened was, you behaved inappropriately, soldier.”

“I MADE A JOKE, for fuck’s sake,” Watson groaned, arms wide, “Or can’t senior officers take a joke?”

Sholto leaned in, his voice hushed, accusatory. “You were flirting.”

“Oh, I see…” Watson said, incensed, and lowered his voice ever farther. “You can _kiss_ me, but I can’t _flirt_ with you, is that it?”

“You can’t be a reckless git, no.” Sholto hissed, and lifted the jerrycan to the bumper. “We both have careers, Captain, and while you may be careless with your own, I’m quite proud of mine. I intend to keep my record spotless. Do you understand?”

Watson listened and nodded in all the right places, but inside, he brimmed with anger. “Why even kiss me then? If you want to keep your record so…clean.”

“I needed you to make that shot,” Sholto said simply, and shrugged. “I’ve read your file, I know your weaknesses, I knew it would work and it did.”

_Shit…_

“My weaknesses, Jesus,” Watson seethed, Sholto’s words were positively caustic. “You know, it’s funny: I don’t recall that particular tactic being taught in officer’s training.”

“Let it go, soldier.”

But Watson wouldn’t. “The only reason you kissed me was so that I would make that shot?”

“Oh, good, you’re following along.”

Watson shook his head, smiled a dangerous smile, and crossed his arms. “You and I both know that’s not true.”

Sholto’s nostrils flared. He looked down and began unscrewing the cap on the jerrycan. “I’m afraid it is. My apologies if you feel you’ve been misled.”

“Apology not accepted,” said Watson, unmoving.

“Look, Captain,” Sholto said, pouring water into the engine, “I’m sorry if your feelings were hurt, but what happened up on that hill, that…” He paused to find the right word, “…that _behaviour_ was purely motivational.”

Watson laughed. He wasn’t hurt, because it was entirely obvious that Sholto was lying. Watson knew a legitimate kiss when he got one. He understood what it meant when a man touched him in a certain way, and he definitely recognized the secret flash of a shared smile in the aftermath. Sholto wasn’t the first closeted man to ever backpedal on a kiss with Watson, and he likely wouldn’t be the last - but while Watson wasn’t upset by his lie, he was properly incensed that the man thought he was dumb enough to actually fall for it.  

“I see. Might need to process that a bit.” Watson said, contemplating his move. He reached out, took the jerrycan from Shoto’s hand and placed it on the ground. “Now, let me fully understand this. You kissed me to motivate me to hit the target?”

“Right.”

“So, if that worked, which it did,” Watson added, “I suppose you wouldn’t have any objection to being similarly motivated yourself? Perhaps to improve your driving?”

Before Sholto could answer, Watson reached one of his hands up to the back of his neck – no easy feat, the man was a bloody giant – and brought Sholto’s face down until it was level with his own, pulling him in for a kiss. It was a kiss that was fully intended to confirm, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Sholto’s interest in kissing men went well beyond the tactical needs of Queen and Country. Watson’s kiss was not the surprise attack that Sholto’s had been – rather, it was a slow and steady advance over enemy lines, a coordinated campaign designed to leave Sholto breathless and aching. It was, surprisingly, tender, unhurried, his lips pressing gently, tongue patiently gliding along lips until they parted. To his credit, Sholto valiantly maintained military decorum for as long as possible, but, inevitably, he kissed back. Inevitably, he also tried to take control, attempting to undermine Watson’s campaign and make it his own.  

That attempt was going to fail.

“Not this time, Major,” Watson warned, and edged him firmly backwards, pressing him down until he was sitting on the bumper and looking slightly dazed. With the height differential resolved, Watson smugly insinuated himself between Sholto’s thighs.

“Your record may be spotless,” he said, kissing him gently, again, before reaching back to give his hair a firm tug. “But mine is filthy. ”

It was only the second time they’d been eye-to-eye, and Watson was rather enjoying it - not that the conditions were in any way perfect. Aside from Edwards’ potential eavesdrop, their body armor was bulky and frustrating, limiting their access. It didn’t matter. Just being this close was enough. Watson noticed that even in this heat, Sholto had the gall to smell fantastic: military-issue soap, of course, but beneath that, the scents of bleach, Earl Gray tea and just a touch of cologne, clearly expensive, but nothing crass enough to recognize by name.

_Cologne. Who are you smelling nice for, Major?_

Watson imagined some comely unit secretary at HQ and felt a slight pang of jealousy. Then again, if she even existed, she wasn’t there then, so he redoubled his efforts, taking Sholto’s face in his hands and kissing him, biting at his lower lip until the man let out a small groan. Watson pulled back from the kiss only to press forward with his hip, pressing himself into Sholto’s lap until he could feel him shift inside his trousers. Sholto exhaled sharply, and Watson smirked. “Now, tell me again how your kiss was strictly all about me making the shot.”

“Captain,” Sholto said, stuttering just a bit.

“That’s not what you called me then, not on that hill.”

“Fine,” he said, and paused, wetting his lips. “Watson.”

“Yes?” Watson took Sholto’s hands in his and pulled them around his own waist. Sholto responded by gripping Watson’s hips, pulling him tighter to him, and whatever he’d been planning to say was lost in their collective moan.

Still, Watson kept the upper hand. “So here’s what I think happened. I think you acted impulsively up on that hill, I think you wanted to kiss me and obviously, if there had been more time, you would’ve done more.” Watson leaned in, and allowed Sholto to kiss the length of his neck, the hollow at his throat. “You assumed I wouldn’t return your interest, so you thought you’d steal a kiss and explain it away with a ridiculous lie. You thought I’d accept it and never say another word about being snogged by my superior officer.”

Sholto stiffened then, and not in a good way. “You won’t...I mean…”

“Don’t worry. Your record will remain spotless, Major,” Watson said, and bit into Sholto’s ear, but not hard enough to leave a mark. “I just want you to admit that your kiss had nothing to do with making the shot.”

A fine sheen of perspiration built up along Sholto’s jawline. The tension within him was clear as he struggled for the right words. “I may have…oh god, understated…the um, actual situation that might’ve…dammit Watson, just…”

“Just say it.”

Sholto’s breath rasped, his hips grinding against Watson’s, and giving up all pretense of restraint, he hissed. “It wasn’t about making the shot!”

Watson smiled, now vindicated, and in celebration, his hands drifted down past Sholto’s body armor to his waistband, slipping one of his hands between them. He pressed his palm to Sholto’s trouser front, grasping him over his clothes, the canvas of his uniform trousers coarse, but still lightweight enough to let him get a good grip. Watson was confident that whatever he did next, it likely wouldn’t take Sholto long to—

“Doc?”

From the back of the BFA, Edwards’ voice called out.

“Major Sholto?”

Both men at the bonnet froze and looked at one another, wide-eyed.

_Fuck._

They separated, as if they’d received a simultaneous electric shock. Watson looked flushed, and thoroughly busted.

Sholto, on the other hand, simply straightened his uniform and stood up, responding with surprising nonchalance. “Yes, Edwards?”

Back in command, he looked to Watson and jerked his head to the back of the ambulance. Watson followed his lead.

Edwards was still looking at the bomb site through the binoculars when Watson came into view, and appeared to be entirely innocent of the goings on at the front of the ambulance. “How many people would you say had been in or around that pick-up truck?” Edwards asked.

“Six – no, seven, including the, um driver.” Watson said, attempting to act casually. Sholto trailed behind him, the jerrycan providing excellent cover for his current state. “Why do you ask?”

“Because, “ Edwards said, holding out the binoculars. “It looks like we got a survivor.”

 

*****

 

Watson fumbled with the focus to try and catch the movement that Edwards had seen, knowing it was likely just leftover detritus from the truck – papers from the glove box, trash from under the seats, being kicked up by the wind – because no one could have survived that explosion, could they? Zoomed in as close as he could, his shaking hands made the image harder to scan, until…goddamn, there it was: a figure running away from the column of smoke, in the opposite direction of the BFA. “Can we go after him?” he asked.

Sholto shook his head. “He’s _retreating_. We’re not permitted to engage parties in retreat.”

“He must’ve gotten a good look at the BFA, at us,” Edwards said. “I don’t suppose he’ll come after us, though, one man on his own?”

“Let him try,” Watson said boldly, still a little high from his victory with Sholto. He climbed back into the ambulance beside Edwards. “Besides, I’ll be surprised if he makes it out of the desert alive, considering how close he was to the bomb center.”

“Right.” Edwards nodded thoughtfully. “Of course, I bet that’s exactly what those insurgents said about me a few days ago.”

Sholto shot him a tight smile. “Yes, but that man doesn’t have the power of the Royal Army Medical Corps and the whole of the British Armed Forces behind him.”

Watson put a reassuring hand on his arm. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

“Good,” Sholto said, and closed one of the doors, catching Watson’s eye as he reached for the other. “All set, Watson?” He added, placing a little punch of emphasis on the Captain’s surname.

The gesture did not go unnoticed, and Watson tried his very best not to grin.

“Yes, Sholto. All set.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From kissing to snogging, and now they're on a last name basis -- progress! :-D
> 
>  
> 
> END NOTES  
> \- Follower Tease? [Action Man vs. Intruder](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/post/144412461436/chapter-6-of-the-jolto-fic-war-is-hell-will-post)
> 
> \- [What a 500lb. bomb looks like from 200m away](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TTRNLNCOGNc)
> 
> \- [UXO’s aren’t risks that are exclusive to current war zones](http://www.landmark.co.uk/news-archive/unexploded-ordnance-%E2%80%93-your-site-risk)
> 
> \- What’s a [Ridgback PPV](http://www.defenseindustrydaily.com/uk-land-forces-order-86-mastiff-ppv-cougar-vehicles-updated-02529/)? The UK variant of an MRAP vehicle. 
> 
> \- What does it take to be an EOD Bomb Disposal Engineer in the British Army? [Find out here.](http://www.army.mod.uk/royalengineers/26642.aspx)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for checking in - my apologies for being late! As Mel can attest, I was changing my mind about things up until the very last minute, so thanks for your patience with the delay in getting this out!
> 
> If you might hold on to that patience for next time -- I've decided to push the posting schedule back one extra week FOR NEXT CHAPTER ONLY -- just trying to get a bit ahead of you guys and allow time for betaing. So:
> 
>  **Chapter 7** will post three weeks from now, on **SUNDAY, JUNE 5th**  
>  but  
>  **Chapter 8** will post just two weeks from then, on **SUNDAY, JUNE 19th**
> 
> Thanks so much, y'all, and don't be afraid to leave a comment here, or message me on Tumblr, I love to hear from you! See you next time!
> 
> <3  
> vex.


	7. On the Road: Tarnak Wa Jaldak to Saydabad (524km)

 

After their extended stay in Tanak Wa Jaldak, Sholto made up for a lot of lost time on the road, churning nearly 300 kilometers in just under three hours.   

The events that had taken place between Sholto and Watson, both before and after the explosion, would certainly color the rest of the trip, but it didn’t mean that the two suddenly got along better than they had before. In fact, if anything, emotions ran higher, for the better and for the worse. Case in point, the bloody fucking _door._

Almost immediately upon resuming the journey, they got into a disagreement about the door between the driver’s cab and the back of the ambulance. Watson had assumed their new…circumstances…would have put an end to the slider window nonsense, but Sholto was of a decidedly different opinion.

He squinted at the request. “Surely your patient would appreciate some privacy?”  

Watson looked at Edwards, who shrugged. “The Yank’s fine with it,” he said, and knocked on the door. “Come on, open up, I’m not even using the jumpseat,” he coaxed.

Sholto looked away. “Watson, this isn’t a clubhouse. I have a job to do, and so have you. The door will remain closed.” He slapped the slider window shut.

Watson swore under his breath, and kicked the door in return.

_Arsehole._

An hour later, during a coolant top off, Watson was up against the side of the BFA, Sholto’s mouth covering his, his hands, fingers pulling at the neckline of Watson’s shirt and shoving aside the velcro strap of Watson’s body armor, trying to get to a place that he could _bite_...

“Don’t,” Watson panted, coming up for air, his hands gripping the other man.

“Don’t what?” asked Sholto, pausing with a frown.

“Don’t fucking…close the door on me again,” Watson groaned, and pulled Sholto’s hands tight over the front of his trousers.  

“Are you questioning me, Captain?” Sholto said, eyes narrowing, and fuck if Watson suddenly found it very hard to breathe. Sholto’s hands moved away from his cock, worked their way over his hips, and then slipped inside his pants, gripping Watson’s toned arse with clear intention.

_…skin on skin and fuck if that wasn’t perfect…._

Breathless, Watson decided to forget what they were arguing about for the time being, and pulled him tighter. “Not…not at all. Wouldn’t dream of it, Sir.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

With the topic of the door temporarily tabled, Watson then picked at the issue of Sholto’s mystery boxes, just as they approached the area outside Shahjoy, in the Zabul Province:

“Seriously, it’s some scam, right?” He asked, when Sholto returned from his slash break.

“No comment,” Sholto said, and moved towards the driver’s cab.

“Is it booze?”

“No comment.”

“Drugs?”

“No comment.”

“If I guess right, will you even tell me?”

“No comment.”

“What if I—“

“Watson?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut the hell up and kiss me.”

 

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t always about picking fights. In the heart of North Aband, Watson and Sholto got into a somewhat heated discussion about military tactics:

“Asia’s just too big, that whole corridor there.” argued Watson, as he topped off the coolant. “It’s too hard to defend!”

Sholto groaned. “You’re not thinking big enough. It’s worth the lives that would be lost to get control of a territory that strategically located.”

“Are you insane? It’s too dangerous! The best bet is to be patient. Start at Papua New Guinea and just build up and build up…”

“Hold on a moment,” Sholto said, suddenly bewildered. “Are we talking Global Defense Strategies, or the best way to win at the board game Risk?”

There was a beat, and then they both laughed, so loud that they woke up Edwards, who demanded to know what was so fucking funny.  

 

 

* * *

 

Things, however, took a more tense turn at a roadside stand in Qarabagh, just outside Ghazni.

“We are in Taliban-held territory, you get that, right?” Watson said to Sholto, his voice hushed. He needn’t have bothered. It wasn’t like their present company could understand a single word they were saying. “We’re on the side of the road, in the most dangerous part of Highway One and you’re buying _grapes_?”

“The COIN campaign doesn’t end at a line drawn on the map.” Sholto said, trying to seem reasonable in front of the old men working at the roadside stand. Their roughly constructed table held a variety of wares for sale: watermelons and bananas, brooms and besoms, handcrafted pendants and picture frames, paper flowers, bags of rice – and yes, grapes. A much younger, rotund man sat at a smaller table behind them, armed with a bolt-action rifle – presumably to defend the old men from attack. He eyed Sholto and Watson suspiciously.

Sholto continued. “The leak is getting worse. The fact that we need water—“

“What happened to _‘you can’t drive down an Afghan road’,_ blah blah blah _’_?”

“Trust me,” Sholto said, under his breath, and then smiled to the old men apologetically. Speaking at normal volume, he turned back to Watson. “These gentlemen have exclusive access to this water pump, and if we purchase some of their delicious grapes, they’ll let us fill our jerrycans, so go _bloody get them_!”

As he turned Sholto hummed the word “pendant” in Watson’s direction, under his breath, and then smiled once again to the roadside proprietors. The younger man then stood up, and walked towards Watson, gun in hand - his escort, apparently, for the retrieval of the jerrycans.

_Presuming he doesn’t shoot me first…_

Watson was still puzzling over the cryptic message when Sholto began talking to the Afghanis in what sounded to be perfect, fluent Pashto. It absolutely stopped him in his tracks. The sound of Sholto’s posh voice wrapping around foreign syllables so effortlessly was impressive – most soldiers learned a few words and phrases, but Sholto appeared to converse with ease. The old men smiled back at him, and the younger man even laughed, nodding Watson’s way, and gesturing him to carry on with his task.

Watson, confused and fairly certain that Sholto had just made a joke at his expense, went to fetch the jerrycans.

Watson realized his escorted journey served two purposes – first, to confirm that he was, in fact, going to retrieve cans, and not weapons, and two, to confirm that the ambulance held an actual sick person. The armed man peered in on Edwards, and who was, thankfully, fast asleep.

By the time he and his escort returned to the table, Sholto was rummaging through his pockets, pulling out a handful of Afghani notes and handing them to one of the old men, while the other man selected a handful of grapes and packaged them into a small paper bag.

Meanwhile, Watson’s escort led him over to the water pump. The location of the pump was close enough to allow him a good view of the table, and as he filled the cans, his gaze fell to the trinkets in the center, the tasseled ornamentations that Watson could only guess were what Sholto had meant by “pendant”. They seemed familiar only in the sense that they looked like every other decorative thing in this bloody country – beautiful, but just this side of ostentatious.

Sholto touched one of the pendants then, and asked the old men a question. Their response was friendly enough. Their conversation continued as Watson, once again accompanied by his gun-toting escort, walked back to the BFA to stow the now-full jerrycans.

When they’d returned to the roadside shop once again, the transaction appeared to be finishing up. The armed man went back to his table, and Sholto said goodbye in Pashto. Watson nodded respectfully, before boarding the back of the BFA. Instinctively, he reached for his weapon, and he only relaxed when he could no longer see the stand from the rear window.

 

 

* * *

 

“Okay, what the everloving _fuck_ was that? And don’t bloody tell me this was about grapes!”

Sholto put off Watson’s questions until they were able to confirm that they hadn’t been followed, and that there was enough distance between them and the roadside stand to safely stop, regroup and top off the coolant, yet again. Watson’s persistent questioning had woken Edwards, and they’d filled him in on the highlights of what had transpired in Qarabagh.

“The grapes were important – they meant those old men weren’t Taliban – they were farmers, actual ones,” Sholto said, plucking a few grapes from the bag, and popping them in his mouth as if to punctuate his sentence. He passed the bag to Watson. “See? We’re far enough north now that people can ride with shovels in their pickups and plant things other than bombs.”

“Yeah, I’ve been watching the terrain change,” said Watson, cautiously biting into a grape, the sweetness spilling onto his tongue.

He tried passing the bag on to Edwards, but he demurred. “Sorry, never liked ‘em. Seeds.”

Watson shrugged and handed the bag back to Sholto. “Okay, so they were farmers. So what?”

“Correction: the three old men were farmers. The young one was their nephew, who has an eye towards joining the Taliban. Which was why he needed to be lured away from the table.”

Watson turned to Sholto with sudden understanding. “You son of a _bitch_!”

Sholto smiled tightly. “About time you caught on.”

“Well _I_ haven’t yet,” Edwards sighed.

“The young one with the gun wasn’t there to protect the old men, theoretically, he was there to make sure they followed the rules.” Watson explained. “I’m surprised he didn’t just shoot us on sight.”

Sholto jerked his head towards the BFA. “I think it was the ambulance. I told you, some actually do respect the Geneva Convention.”

“The real question is why they shared their water,” Edwards said.

“Because I said you’d die without it. Remember: they were farmers, not soldiers, not even the young one, not yet.” Sholto ate another grape and spit the seed into a nearby patch of scrubby vegetation before continuing.  “At any rate, Watson filling the water cans distracted the nephew and took him away from the table, so I could question the farmers in private and ask them about our friends in the pickup truck.”

Edwards wrinkled his brow. “But why would farmers know anything about terrorist activity hours south of here?”

“They wouldn’t.” Watson said sharply. “It was a fishing expedition, at best. And you—“ he turned to Sholto, frustration building. “You didn’t even _tell_ me! If you had, I could’ve stalled him, I could have given you more time!”

“I thought you’d catch on once you saw the pendant!” said Sholto, defensively.

“Wait,” Edwards said, “What pendant?”

Watson gestured, dismissively. “They were selling these ornate bead…things at the stand. Is that what you meant by pendant?”

Sholto nodded. “Exactly.”

Watson gave an exasperated sigh. “What the hell was I supposed to get from looking at a bunch of gaudy necklaces?

Sholto locked eyes with him, and talked him through it. “Think about it. The ones on that table were green, but the one we saw, you and I, was red, with a long tassel.”

Watson shook his head. “I’ve never seen anyone wearing a necklace like that.”

“It wasn’t a necklace, it was decoration,” prompted Sholto, his voice clear and concise, another challenge. “Can’t you remember?”

Watson closed his eyes, thought about the trip, the things they’d seen, the places they’d driven through, faster and faster until he zeroed in on exactly where he’d seen that bloody pendant.

_Fucking hell._

He opened his eyes. “The red pickup. Hanging from the rearview mirror.”

 

 

* * *

 

Sholto didn’t engage with Watson much during the next part of the drive – maybe it was because he was too busy thinking about what should be done with the information he’d received from the old men, or perhaps it was because Edwards was now alert and awake – a potential witness, poised to ruin Sholto’s spotless record.

Watson was slowly beginning to understand how it worked with Sholto: advance and retreat. Two steps forward, one step back -- and maybe even two steps back. Bold when in private, conservative in public. The idea was madness, even to a mostly-closeted man like Watson, but Sholto clearly had different priorities.  

_And after all, this was still just something to pass the time, right?_

Watson took pity on him and vowed to stop flirting, at least for a little while. They were just under two hours out from Bagram, and once Edwards was safely delivered to the Americans, once the ambulance was repaired, once the mystery boxes went away, they would have the entire ride back home to do whatever they wished – unfettered and unchaperoned. Watson could wait that long. He could be patient.

“You aren’t though, are you?”

Edwards’ voice bolted Watson out of his thoughts. “Excuse me?”

“I asked if you were married,” he said.

Watson relaxed, having at first thought he’d asked something else entirely.

Edwards was sketching again. Since he’d last woken up, he’d chattered to Watson, telling stories and asking personal questions about his life back home. After the excitement of the explosion, and the anticipation of arriving at the base, Edwards needed a bit of distraction. Maybe he was realizing that this ambulance trip was likely the last piece of this war and this country that he’d ever see. Was he waxing sentimental, or was he just curious? Either way, Watson humored his questions.

“I’m not married. Neither are you,” Watson answered. Deflection was always the best defense.

“I’m still young, though.”

“I’m not going to take offense at that.”

“You know what I mean.” Edwards said, with a grin. “Don’t you want to settle down?”

“Such a terrible phrase,” Watson countered. “’Settling’. Not something I really want to do.” He opened the flavor packet from his MRE kit and poured it into the small bottle of water that came with it. He screwed the top back on and shook it to mix the flavor. “You want some – what is this?” He looked at the label. “God, _mango_ -punch flavoured-water?”

Edwards made a face and declined, then persisted in his line of questioning. “So, no settling down. You’re a player, then?”

“A player?” Watson was amused by the thought. “Nah. I’m not that good, mate,” he leaned in, and tried to shift the topic. “So what are you drawing now, anyway?”

“Not until it’s done,” Edwards said, pulling the book out of Watson’s line of sight. “Don’t change the subject. I did hear a nurse or two talk about you at Bastion, you know.”

Watson sighed. “Fine, no, I’m not looking to settle down, but regardless what you may have heard, I’m not a player.”

“Pardon me, but from what I heard, you’re not exactly a monk, either.”

“Why are you so curious about me?” Watson asked, brow furrowed, a small smile on his face.

“Because you saved my life,” Edwards said, eyes still on his sketch. “I owe you.”

“That’s a kind thought, Edwards, but you don’t owe me anything. It’s my job.”

“Say whatever you want,” Edwards said, “But anyone else would’ve left me to die in that field. You put me over your shoulder, you carried me back, you took the shit out of my leg and my side and sewed me back together again. Hell, you’re risking your life right now, just to get me home.”

“Now, you can’t count that, I was ordered to, paperwork was filed—“

“You’re still here—” Edwards said, gesturing firmly as he did – but perhaps a little too firmly. He paused, mid-sentence and paled, leaning back into the stretcher. The sketchbook fell closed and dropped to his side.

“Edwards?” Watson reached for his wrist and looked to the monitors. His blood pressure was a bit low, but all else appeared well within normal levels.

“I’m fine, it’s okay,” Edwards said, no small annoyance in his voice. “I feel okay for awhile and then it has to remind me I’m not 100% yet, you know?”

“You won’t be for a while yet, lad. ” Watson nodded to the automated dispensing system at his side. “The pain medication is there when you need it.”

“Later,” he said, and exhaled slowly, gingerly pulling the sketchbook back to his chest. “All I was saying is that I do owe you, and I take my debts very seriously. Happily, you’re a simple fix.”

“Oh, I’m in need fixing, am I?” Watson said, amused by the concept.

Edwards smirked. “Clearly.”

“So what’s wrong with me, then?”

Edwards picked up his pencil once more. “You’re…happy,” he said.

“And that’s a problem?”

“You’re in the middle of a war zone,” Edwards explained, “You’re in constant danger of attack, in the most dangerous place in the world. You see the problem there?”

“I’m a soldier. It’s my job to be in danger.”

“Yeah, Doc,” Edwards said, with a laugh, “but you’re not supposed to _like_ it.”

 

 

* * *

According to the map they were in a place called Saydabad. Bagram was still 150 kilometers away, and the terrain was changing again -- same sand, but the mountains were getting closer.

“Did you radio base?” Watson asked, once again hefting a jerrycan to the engine.

Sholto nodded in the affirmative. “Yes. They’re going to coordinate with Bagram and run the names of the men in the pickup, along with the names of the places the old guys mentioned. They think that together, they might have some new information by the time we get in, but who knows.”

“It’s good intel. Maybe they can use it, stop the next run, who knows.” Watson leaned against the bumper. “You did good at the roadside thing.”

“Yes?” Sholto looked pleased. “Well, I did my job.”

Watson couldn’t help but be reminded of his earlier conversation with Edwards.

“You shocked me with the Pashto,” he admitted, filling the coolant container. “I mean, who the hell is fluent in Pashto, anyway?”

“Oh, somewhere between 45 and 55 million people on the planet, but that’s just a rough estimate,” Sholto said, amusement in his voice.

Watson, shook his head, and laughed. “Smart arse.”

“ _Very_ smart, kind of you to notice.” Sholto winked at him, and backed off from the bonnet. “So, I can fill the gas tank, if you need to have a slash.”

“Yeah, alright – here,” Watson said, and held out the near-empty jerrycan for the other man to return to the back. “I’ll be back quick.”

He closed the bonnet firmly, and lit out over the sand, choosing a small hill at a prudent distance, just to be polite. No one wants to be privy to a co-worker’s activities in the privy, even if it is just a quick stop -- and even less so if those co-workers are, perhaps, on their way to becoming something more.

The sun was high in the sky, a bit past noon by now, but a light breeze kicked up when he was halfway to the hill, making it feel almost pleasant. All in all, it had not been too horrible a trip so far. He felt he’d made a decent showing with Sholto on the soldiering front: spotting the pickup, making the shot, even playing along nice at the roadside when he didn’t know what the hell was happening. And to be frank, things hadn’t been too bad on the personal front either, even if they did argue, and even if Sholto was still defending a spotless record.

All things considered, Watson was feeling pretty good about things.

All things considered, for that reason alone, he really shouldn’t have been too surprised when moments later, a panicked shout came from the direction of the BFA.

“Watson! He’s flatlining!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edwards, nooooooo! (Oh shush, you totally knew he was the Chekov's gun in this story ;-p)
> 
> As for Sholto and Watson, they covered a great deal of distance this chapter, both literally and figuratively. Here's hoping the events that follow will encourage that growth!
> 
>  
> 
> **END NOTES**
> 
> \- Follower Tease? Traveling in Afghanistan can be a [Risk-y endeavor](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/post/145452477418/chapter-7-of-the-jolto-fic-war-is-hell-will-post)
> 
> \- Speaking of which, [military strategy courtesy the great Eddie Izzard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kpcxfsjIIbM). _“Seven extra men at the beginning of every go, but you couldn’t fucking hold it.”_
> 
> \- [The COIN (counter-insurgency warfare) program](http://www.exeter.ac.uk/media/universityofexeter/strategyandsecurityinstitute/pdfs/shortcourses/S.Catignani-Getting_COIN_at_the_Tactical_Level_in_Afghanistan.pdf) was (is?) endorsed by both the US and UK military
> 
> \- The roadside stand is based on [this picture of a street market booth in Kunduz](https://thevelvetrocket.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/street-markets-kunduz.jpg). 
> 
> \- The [pendant](http://www.aliexpress.com/item/GS119-car-Afghanistan-jade-pendant-interior-rearview-mirror-car-interior-decoration-supplies-wholesale-manufacturers-hang-Pisces/32242077881.html%0A) looked like this. 
> 
> \- Sholto is definitely up on his [linguistic facts](http://www.omniglot.com/writing/pashto.htm)! 
> 
>    
> Mel sent me her Beta notes, the fic has been updated and it is clear for downloading, for those that wish!
> 
> At any rate, we now return to a two-week schedule, so next chapter will post on **Sunday, June 19th**! I will see you then, lovelies!
> 
> <3  
> vex.


	8. On The Road: Saydabad to Chaharikar (686km)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING: There's loads of medical stuff in this one, including needle-mentions, so if that kind of stuff squicks you, feel free to skip to the End Notes for a squick-free summary of the goings-on in this chapter.** <3

 

_…brain death after 10-15 minutes without oxygen, out of hospital survival rates, even with emergency intervention less than 2%..._

Watson raced back to the ambulance, his heart in his throat and icewater in his veins. Running over the sand felt like running in nightmares, his feet sluggish and slow.

_…the “H’s”: hypovolemia, hypoxia, hydrogen ion, hyperkalemia, hypokalemia, hypoglycaemia, hypothermia…_

His mind raced with the list of usual causes of asystole, or “flatlining”, something he was taught to remember with the pneumonic “H’s and T’s”.

_…the “T’s: toxins, tamponade, tension pneumothorax, thrombosis of the heart, thrombosis of the lungs, trauma…_

He could hear the long, drawn out tone of the ECG machine before he reached the rear of the ambulance. Sholto was inside, arms at his side, fingers flexing nervously, looking less than commanding, looking helpless, in fact, looking useless.

_…brain death after 10-15 minutes without oxygen, out of hospital survival rates, even with emergency intervention less than 2%...the “H’s”…_

“Move, MOVE!” barked Watson, and Sholto jumped to let him in, the tight quarters made tighter by the excess cargo. Sholto leapt out of the vehicle altogether, standing on the dusty road below.

Edwards was out. Watson checked the connections to the machines and looked at the boy: pale, no pulse, his jugular vein pronounced. He touched his skin, clammy.  

Watson began CPR, counting chest compressions out loud “1,2,3,4…What happened?” he shouted to Sholto. “…7, 8, 9…”

He stammered. “I-I stowed the cans and he was fine, sleeping, when the alarm went off.”

“…14, 15, 16...” Watson nodded, and began making observations.

_…no signs of fluid loss, so not hypovolemia, not hypoxia, either, airway clear..._

”…19, 20, 21…”

_…could be hydrogen ion acidosis, maybe, need an ABG blood test to confirm, no time, still the flatline tone, out of hospital survival rates, even with emergency intervention, less than 2%..._

 “…29, 30.” Head tilt, nose pinch, mouth seal, two rescue breaths. “Come on, lad, 1, 2, 3, 4…”

_…quick glance at the ECG trace, T-waves normal, knocks out hyperkalemia and hypokalemia..._

“…6, 7, 8…”

_…dextrose in the IV, can’t be hypoglycaemia, and it’s not bloody hypothermia in a fucking desert, okay, so the “T’s..._

“…10, 11, 12…”

_…unlikely to be toxins – unless someone fucked up his medication – shit, unless the grapes, did he eat the grapes?  He didn’t, did he?_

“…13, 14, 15…”

_…tamponade, possibly, would explain the jugular vein distention, and a closer look at the ECG,_

“…17, 18, 19…”

_…electrical alternans on the QRS axis, bingo…cardiac tamponade, immediate pericardiocentesis required , shit…_

“Major, your assistance is needed!”

To his credit, Sholto hesitated only a moment before reboarding the ambulance, squeezing in beside Captain Watson.

Watson spoke without stopping. “There’s fluid around his heart. You see these compressions?  You’re going to take over after I get to 30 and then deliver the breaths, got me? You’ve done CPR before?”

Sholto nodded, curtly. “Only on a manikin.”

“Better that than nothing. 27, 28, 29, 30 – and then two breaths, like this.” Watson demonstrated the breaths, and then helped Major Sholto find the correct hand position for the compressions. “Like that, 30 compressions, 2 breaths. Got it?”

“Got it.”

With Sholto on CPR, Watson moved to the containers holding the medical supplies, pushing Sholto’s cargo out of the way to prep for the procedure, not even caring when a few boxes went flying out the back of the van.  To Sholto’s credit, for once, he didn’t seem to care, either.

Pericardiocentisis without an ultrasound was risky, but it wasn’t like the fucker had a choice.

_…emergency subxiphoid percutaneous drainage…_

Quickly, he constructed a makeshift Mayo tray out of cardboard boxes, laying out the equipment he’d need. Sholto continued with the CPR, but still the flatline tone remained constant.

_…16 or 18-gauge needle, inserted at an angle of 30-45° to the skin, near the left xiphocostal angle, aiming towards the left shoulder…_

“Okay, I’m moving the bed up, keep the compressions going as best you can,” Watson pressed past the Major, until he reached the head of the bed. He disengaged the mechanism, pressing the stretcher forward until it was lifted at a 45-degree angle.

_…reported mortality rate 4%..._

Once done, he realized the stack of boxes he’d been using as a Mayo tray were now blocking his access to the patient, but rather than lose time manuevering around Sholto and the cargo, he dove under and around the Major, until he was in a position to conduct the procedure.

_…complication rate of 17%..._

By the time Sholto finished delivering his two breaths, Watson was on the stretcher, straddling the patient, wielding the longest motherfucking needle Sholto had ever seen in his life. “Stop the CPR.”

Sholto went wide-eyed. “What the hell is that?”

_…18-gauge needle…_

“A big, fuckoff needle. There’s fluid around his heart. I’m taking it out.”

Sholto went a particularly distressing shade of pale, and all of a sudden Watson understood why he’d been dodging the lidocaine this whole trip.

“Stay with me, Major, I need you conscious!” Watson shouted, and lifted Edwards’ hospital gown, running a finger along the lad’s sternal border.

_…inserted at an angle of 30-45° to the skin…_

Locating the cardiac notch of the left lung, Watson licked his lips in concentration, and swabbed the area with alcohol.

_…near the left xiphocostal angle…_

Holding his finger on the notch, Watson looked up at Sholto, his face flushed, his expression keen.

_…aiming towards the left shoulder…_

“Here we go. Ready?”

“Ready,” Sholto said, tring hard not to flinch.

They both held their breath.

_… inserted at an angle 30-45°..._

Watson punctured the patient’s skin and paused to remove the stylet, attach the stopcock and then the syringe. With everything in place, he pressed the needle forward into the patient’s 5th intercostal space.

_… left xiphocostal angle..._

He felt it seat, and he huffed out a breath. Cautiously, slowly, he pulled back on the plunger…

_… complication rate 17%..._

…and the syringe…

_… mortality rate 4%..._

…filled with pinkish fluid.

_Gotcha, you bastard_

He pulled until the syringe was filled.  He snapped the stopcock closed and detached the syringe, holding it out to Sholto. “Another. Quickly!”

Sholto, mesmerized by the procedure, didn’t realize that Watson was talking to him at first, but then scrambled to give him a new one. “What do I do with the full one?”

“Bowl,” he said as he connected the new syringe. Sholto dutifully dropped the syringe into the bowl. Watson opened the stopcock and pulled back on the plunger. Midway through the third syringe, the ECG tone changed, triumphantly signaling the presence of a weak heartbeat.

Watson waited to celebrate until he finished filling the third syringe and had installed a chest tube in its place. He let out a shaky breath and eased off the patient. He elevated the lad’s legs, propping them up over a box with a pillow to cushion. He collapsed onto a nearby box, red-faced, and watched the boy breathe.

Sholto swallowed hard, and when Watson looked over at him, the man looked shaken, his face ashen.

_Shit._

“You still with me, Major?”

Sholto slowly nodded, his eyes wide.

Watson leaned in. “You gonna puke?”

Sholto shook his head. “That was--”

“I know,” Watson said, “If I’d have known about you and needles, I--”

“No, that’s not it.” Sholto said, looking at Watson like it was the first time he’d seen him. “That...was _amazing._ ”

“No,” Watson knee-jerked. “That was me almost killing a man. I _knew_ his blood pressure was running low, he told me not an hour ago that he was feeling weak, I should have noticed his fucking distended jugular, there were so many bloody signs. This is my fault!”

“You caught it when you needed to.”

“I didn’t catch it at all! The monitor did. I was literally off pissing in the desert!”

“You saved his life,” Sholto insisted, “I just watched you do it. You figured out what was going in his body as if you had X-ray vision and with nothing more than a handful of syringes and a giant needle, you _saved_ him.”

“If I’d been paying proper attention, he wouldn’t have needed saving.”

Sholto worked his jaw, his expression grave as the meaning behind Watson’s words sunk in. “But he’ll recover, right?” He asked, quietly, “He’ll be okay?”

Watson hesitated a moment before answering. “Can’t say for sure. He’s breathing. He’s out of immediate danger. Hopefully he will regain consciousness soon. Barring any new crisis, he should keep until Bagram.”

Sholto picked up the boxes Watson had thrown without mention. “And then?”

“That’s up to the docs at Bagram I guess.”

“It happened so quickly.”

“That’s usually how these things happen.”

Sholto nodded, his military composure returning. “Then it’s best we get him there promptly.” He turned and walked around to the front of the vehicle.

The vehicle shifted slightly when Sholto boarded the driver’s cab. Watson checked Edwards’ vitals, and tucked the full syringes into an insulated bag with a coldpack for later analysis in Bagram.

Up front, the engine revved to life, before pulling back out onto the road, Sholto slapped open the slider window. “Don’t forget to close those back doors, Watson.”

Watson looked up, his mind preoccupied, and he hurriedly pulled the doors closed behind him. “Good to go.”

“Not quite,” Sholto said, and closed the slider window, and a moment later, the entire door between the driver’s cab and the back of the ambulance opened.

Watson looked up. “Do you…need something?“

“No,” said Sholto, putting the BFA into drive.

Watson shook his head. “But…you were right. This isn’t a clubhouse, and clearly I treated it that way, even with the door closed. You should shut it, for his sake.”

“For both of your sakes, it’s staying open,” Sholto said, softly. Watson had earned his respect, and the last thing he wanted was for the man to spend the next two hours beating himself up in the dark. He secured the door open.

“Besides,” he admitted, “I fucking _hate_ that slider.”

 

 

* * *

 

Edwards regained consciousness before too long, disoriented by the lost time and the pain in his chest, likely a broken rib or two from the compressions, but small price to pay in the grand scheme of things. Watson explained what happened, engaging his best bedside manner and consciously avoiding the use of terms like “big, fuckoff needle". The lad’s skin was still clammy, but his breathing had become less ragged.

Edwards took the news as well as could be expected, with a moment of panic and then requests for reassurance. “I’m not gonna die?”

“Not for another 70 or 80 years, if I have any say in it,” Watson said, with a smile. “We’ll be at the base in a little over an hour, and they’ll be in a much better position to sort out what’s going on. Cardiac tamponade is caused by pericarditis, which can be caused by trauma to the chest, so I’m pretty sure that’s what’s going on, but they’ll be able to do an ECG and a radiograph, an echo too, find out definitively.”

“Am I going to need more surgery?”

“Too early to call. But even if you don’t, I wouldn’t recommend they move you again, or even consider air travel until you’ve thoroughly stabilized,” Watson warned, “You won’t be home for good, for a bit, no matter what your father wants.”

Edwards nodded, weakly. “Yeah, okay. Makes sense.” He smoothed out the bedsheet, and Watson noticed his hands shaking. No one, at any age, should be reminded of their own mortality, but espcially not someone so young.

Edwards looked around. “Bright in here.”

“Door’s open,” Watson smiled, and leaned back to point out the open door. “Say hello, Major!”

From the driver’s cab, Sholto called out, “Welcome back, Lieutenant, good to have you with us.”

Watson leaned down to Edwards and whispered confidentially, “If I’d have known he’d relent in the case of emergency, I would’ve faked one earlier…”

Edwards managed a smile.

 

 

* * *

 

“Everything okay back there?” Sholto called back.

Watson moved towards the driver’s cab. “He’s resting. How close are we?”

“We turned onto 40 Meter Road a little more than half an hour ago, so…” Sholto said, doing the math in his head. “We’ve probably got another twenty minutes to go.”

Since Edwards’ flatline, they’d had to stop twice for coolant. The hose was clearly on its last legs, but with any luck, they’d get this bitch of a BFA to Bagram before those legs gave out. Both times, Watson had remained inside the ambulance, not wanting to be more than a step away from the boy – he’d learned his lesson, hadn’t he?

Watson leaned his back against the door, watching Sholto drive and admiring his profile. He wondered what the Americans would make of them both once they arrived at Bagram. “So, how’s it going to go when we get there?”

“I’ll drop you and Edwards off at the hospital, then I’ll see about getting this vehicle repaired,” Sholto said.

“I’m actually kind of eager to see the hospital – news is they have a new, high tech combat hospital, just opened a year ago,” Watson said. “Might have a look around, once I get Edwards sorted and consult with his doctors.”

The road took a sharp turn then, and Sholto’s hands gripped the wheel, drawing Watson’s attention towards his injured arm. It didn’t look as angry as it had earlier, but still needed attention.

“Maybe you should meet me in hospital, when you’re done with the car, so I can tend to your arm properly?”

Sholto yanked the sleeve of his shirt down over the burn, the fabric rough over the sensitive skin, and he tried to hide the wince. “If there’s time, sure. But let’s have a decent meal first. What do you say - meet me in the dining facility when you’re done?”

Something about the way he said it, the coy glance he sent Watson’s way, made Watson feel like he was being asked on a date – and for all he knew, he was.

“Sure,” Watson said, suddenly shy, “Hopefully we’d, ah, know something about the BFA’s status by then. But, yeah. Dinner then. Or is it lunch?”

Sholto gave a soft smile. “It can be whatever we want it to be, don’t you think?”

Watson blushed then, and nodded slowly, a small smile of his own broadening on his face.

_Date, then. Definitely._

It flustered him a bit – even though it was just lunch (or dinner) in the mess hall – because it was with Sholto, and the idea of anything even remotely datelike with that man seemed entirely…improbable. He could swear he heard Sholto’s ancestors rolling in their military cemetaries.

_Then again, they can all kiss my lower-ranked ass…_

Watson smirked at the thought, and busied himself with prepping for their arrival, packing up Edwards’ personal belongings in one bag, and his medical charts and samples for analysis in the other.  Watson was more than ready for a break from the road, and while their stay in Bagram would likely be brief, it looked like it might turn out to be far more interesting than planned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Non-Squick Summary:** Edwards flatlined, but Watson brought him back with a quick diagnosis and deft execution of a tricky medical procedure. Watson blamed himself for the flatline because he hadn't noticed the symptoms, but Sholto reminded him that he did save the lad's life. More than a little bit awed by Watson's performance, Sholto opens the door between the driver's cab and the back of the ambulance, a gesture. Watson talks to Edwards about his situation once he regains consciousness. Sholto and Watson make plans for their arrival in Bagram, plans which seem to include a lunch (or is it dinner?) date in the mess hall. _
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **END NOTES**
> 
> \- Follower Tease? _[…electrical alternans on the QRS axis, bingo…](http://www.cmcedmasters.com/uploads/1/0/1/6/10162094/9707284_orig.jpg)_
> 
> \- [A reminder of how fucking close the quarters are in the back of a military ambulance (and a reminder shot of that fucking door – shown closed here)](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/post/146112747751/move-along-nothing-to-see-here-unless-youre)
> 
> \- Everything I know about diagnosing a flatline comes from [cardiachealth.org](http://www.cardiachealth.org/asystole-and-pulseless-electrical-activity) (zero squick)
> 
> \- This is what [jugular vein distention](http://emsbasics.com/2011/10/17/what-it-looks-like-jugular-vein-distention/) (moderate squick, some blood) looks like (and yeah, Watson really should have noticed…)
> 
> \- Everything I know about cardiac tamponade I learned from [healthline.com](http://www.healthline.com/health/cardiac-tamponade) (zero squick) and [this blog](http://bauerofbauerpower.blogspot.com/2015_01_01_archive.html) (drawing of a heart, very mild, if any, squick)
> 
> \- Everything I know about how to conduct an emergency subxiphoid percutaneous drainage, I learned from [medscape](http://misc.medscape.com/pi/iphone/medscapeapp/html/A152083-business.html)  
> (zero squick) from [this youtube video (serious squick, needles)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q6L0NCM9Z-c) and from my lovely Beta/medpicker extraordinaire, [BakerStMel](bakerstmel.tumblr.com)!
> 
> \- Save a life: [The NHS' own how-to on CPR](http://www.nhs.uk/Conditions/Accidents-and-first-aid/Pages/CPR.aspx). How much do I love the absurdity of them suggesting you hum "Staying Alive" or "Another One Bites The Dust" to get the compression rhythm right? 
> 
> \- Why didn’t I have Watson shout “CLEAR!” and dive for the defib paddles when Edwards flatlined? [Because I don’t want to be beaten with a wet chicken…](https://doctorgrasshopper.wordpress.com/2010/01/23/if-you-shock-a-flatline-i-swear-i-will-come-to-your-home-and-beat-you-with-a-wet-chicken/)
> 
>  
> 
> So, the boys are moments away from arriving in Bagram - what will happen once they're out of the BFA and unchaperoned? Stay tuned for the next chapter, scheduled to post on Sunday, July 3rd! See you then! 
> 
> <3  
> vex.


	9. On The Road: Chaharikar to Bagram Air Base (688km)

The last few miles to Bagram dragged on, with Watson eager to get Edwards situated, the vehicle fixed, a break from the cramped quarters in the BFA, and to begin his maybe-date with Sholto.

Like everything else on this trip, the base itself was located in a flat valley surrounded by mountains. From the road, you could see it from miles away, ensconced behind thick concrete perimeter walls, and topped with barbed wire.

“Have you ever been, Watson?” Sholto jutted his chin in the direction of the base.

“To Bagram? No. You?”

Sholto nodded. “A few times, yes: diplomatic meet and greets. It’s nice, if you like that sort of thing. Lots of shops, lots of…fast food,” he said, with a bit of a sneer. “Oh, also, if you want to Skype home, there’s a wifi hotspot with some computers. The connection can be a little slow, but it’s free.”

“It’s _free_? It’s almost 70 quid a month to Skype from Bastion!” John said, struck by the injustice.

“Leave it to the Americans,” Sholto snorted, “Burger King and free internet, that’s the real American dream.”

Watson laughed, quietly, eyeing the sleeping soldier in the stretcher beside him, and then turned back to Sholto. “But you’re still gonna take advantage, right? Skype home, talk to your boys?”

“Of course. If there’s time,” Sholto said, and looked pointedly at Watson through the rearview mirror. “How about you? Are you going to?”

“What are you asking, Major?” Watson teased, knowing exactly what he was asking. Major Sholto was clearly not the most subtle man on earth.

Sholto bit his lip and looked away, shaking his head. “Nevermind, soldier.”

“Oh, it’s _soldier_ now, is it?” Watson said, goading him. “I see how it is.”

The engine slowed, and Sholto turned. “Alright, RTM, smartarse?”

“ _Very_ smart, kind of you to notice,” Watson replied, echoing Sholto from hours before. He cut his eyes to the road ahead and was surprised to see the Bagram Air Field gates directly ahead. They’d made it here intact, all of them. He huffed out a relieved breath before answering Sholto’s question.

“Yessir: I am more than ready to move.”

 

## 

* * *

 

In 2006, U.S. Army Staff Sargeant Heathe Craig, a medic with the 159th Medical Company, 10th Mountain Division, was attempting to evacuate a wounded soldier from a ridgeline when the hoist on the Blackhawk helicopter that was lifting them both…snapped.

Both men died. 

In 2007, the Craig Joint Theater Hospital at Bagram Air Base was opened, named in honor of that medic. Everything Watson had read about the facility was inspiring – a state-of-the-art hospital that rivaled not just the best military hospitals, but the best civilian hospitals as well. It even had a _dental_ clinic, for fuck’s sake.

_While some of us still don’t have a bloody MRI…_

All envy aside, Watson was grateful for the Yanks’ advanced tech, if only for Edwards’ sake. His chances of survival had increased just upon entry to this complex, and Watson felt confident that he’d be leaving him in good hands.

In fact, Bagram’s Rapid Response medical team was  waiting for them when they arrived, alerted by a radio comm from Sholto announcing their ETA.  Once they drove into the concrete shelter that led into the hospital, the team swarmed the ambulance, opening both doors and easing Edwards’ stretcher onto a gurney. Above them fluttered the biggest American flag that Watson had ever seen, a 20’x30’ patriotic bunting that ran the length of the shelter’s ceiling and billowed in the breeze. Watson wasn’t sure whether flag-waving on this scale was impressive or outright terrifying.

On the pavement, Watson did a quickfire recitation of the patient’s injuries, his medical history and the events of the last few hours, handing a nurse the fluid samples from the pericardiocentesis to test. Once Edwards’ medical and personal effects were retrieved, a medic on the team slammed the back doors shut, pausing to run his hand admiringly over the bullet holes, and nodding to the broken window. “Damn, you guys saw some action on the way, didn’tcha?”

“Just a bit,” Watson said, with a small flush of pride. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.” 

“Well, alright,” the medic said, and high-fived him before unlocking the gurney legs.

“Ready, Doctor?” asked one of the nurses.

Watson looked at Edwards on that gurney, who looked very small at the center of all this activity. He squeezed his arm. “Four-star accommodations, lad, an entourage of medical professionals at your beck and call, don’t let it go to your head, rockstar.” 

“I’ll do my best,” Edwards said, managing a smile. “You’re coming, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll be right behind you, just need to sort out the schedule with the Major. See you inside.” 

As they wheeled Edwards into the building, Watson moved to the driver’s side window, where Sholto’s injured arm rested on the window frame.

“I’ll get you some lidocaine cream for that inside, bypass the shot.”

Sholto laughed. “You don’t let anything go, do you?”

“Just say yes and thank you.”

“Fine. Yes and thank you.”

“So, dining hall, maybe around…what?” Watson checked his watch. ”14:30? Enough time to settle the lad and see to the ambulance?”

“Yes, looking forward to it,” Sholto said, with a wink, his eyes lingering on Watson’s mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a patrolling MP turn the corner, crossing the intersection towards them. Sholto leaned back into the car, straightening his posture, hardening his expression.

_Engaging Action Man. Showtime for Sholto. Poor fucking sod._

Watson followed his lead, and stepped back from the window. “Right then. I should go.”

“Indeed.” Sholto said, formally. “Do keep the lad safe.”

“Will do. Good luck at the motorpool.” John said, and took another step back as Sholto pulled out onto the road, dust rising up under its wheels.

 

## 

* * *

 

Inside, Watson counted at least three ORs, a well-appointed trauma bay and dozens upon dozens of beds, at least twice as many as what they had at Bastion. The facility even smelled new – admittedly, “new” doused in antiseptic and rinsed with bleach – but the newness of the place was apparent in every unscuffed door, every unscratched monitor and the persistent, reassuring state-of-the-art electronic hum that filled every room. He was over the moon.

The Rapid Response team, clad in camouflage scrubs _,_ assessed Edwards’ vitals, cleaned and redressed his wounds, drained his chest tube and fluffed his pillow. While Watson stood by, observing, Edwards joked with him, asking him when the mani-pedi would begin.

The lad was safe, he was being monitored and he was now tapped into arguably the best quality medical care to be found in this country.

_Mission accomplished._

But Watson’s responsibility to Edwards did not end there. Later, behind closed doors with the doctors assigned to Edwards’ case (not one doc but THREE in this place), Watson gave them a more detailed account of the patient’s status, ending with a request that he not be airlifted home until he’d stabilized.

“His father wants him home.”

“His father’s not a doctor.”

“No, he’s not,” said Lt. Col. Vincent, who appeared to be the lead doctor on the case. “He’s actually influential – he’s a politician.”

Watson shook his head. “Who cares about influence? His son is _hurt_. What he wants is second to what his son needs.”

Vincent’s voice tightened, and got louder. “He is a state senator rumored to be in the running for Vice President of the United States of America. What he wants—”

“I don’t care if he’s the bloody Pope, President and Prime Minister all rolled into one,” Watson interrupted, passionate in his position. “That kid’s not leaving here until he stabilizes. He almost died out there, on my fucking watch. The trip up here, those roads, it was too much, and it was _too early_. “ Watson leaned in, eyeing Vincent daring him to go. “You put air travel on top of that and he’s gonna show up in the states on time, but DOA.”

“Gentlemen?” Thet voice belonged to someone who appeared to be the youngest member of the team, freckles and all, a woman who looked barely old enough to be in the army, much less hold a position high enough to participate in meetings like this one. She’d quickly prove him wrong. “Might I suggest we reconvene on this topic after we’ve run a full battery of tests on the patient?”

Vincent turned. “Are you suggesting, Captain Miller, that Captain Watson’s team didn’t run a complete battery in Bastion?”

“I am not, Sir, it’s just, I’ve visited Bastion and I am simply suggesting that they might not have—“

Vincent held up a hand. “Careful: let’s not offend the people who risked their lives to get Edwards here in the first place, Miller.” 

Miller defended her stance. “I’m NOT offending them, I’m simply suggesting that we have more—“

Vincent interrupted her a second time. “And I’m saying it’s not your place to make those kind of suggestions!“

“Oi, both of you, enough!” Watson said loudly, his turn to intervene. “Lieutenant Colonel, I think I understand what the Captain Miller is trying to say and I’m not offended in the slightest. In fact, I agree with her.”

He placed his hands on the table and steadied his voice. “Look, if you’ve been to Bastion, you know our hospital is great, I’m proud as hell of the work we do, but the truth is, we don’t have all the tech you have here, tech that could reveal things about Lieutenant Edwards’ health that we could never see with the gear we have. “ He turned to Miller. “Please. Run whatever tests you can. I’ll be happy to assist, if you like,” he said, and turned to Vincent. “Thank you for your diplomacy, Lieutenant Colonel, but regardless of who his father is, he’s a good soldier and deserves every consideration. I only want what’s best for him.”

Vincent leaned back thoughtfully in his chair, and then after a long moment, closed the medical file in front of him. “Alright, you heard the Captain. Full battery of tests, as quickly as possible. Reconvene to discuss transport at conclusion of tests. Dismissed.”

He stood and walked out the door, with the rest of the team following him, Captain Miller at the last. She paused at the door and turned to Watson. “You coming, Captain? I’m gonna need a hand with the new High Definition CT scanner.”

Watson stopped in his tracks.

_Fuck me, the Yanks had some money, didn’t they?_

“You’ve got an HD CT scanner?”

“Well, we had to get a new one,” she said. “The old one was from the previous medical facility and had nowhere near as good clarity.”

“Right. And how old was that one?”

“Oh, _ancient_ ,” she smiled, teasing. “At least three, four years old….”

“Well sure, throw that old one, you know, right in the bin,” Watson grinned, volleying her tease right back. “Gotta have the latest model, or else what will the neighbors think?”

She laughed, and together, they walked down the hall to check out the new machine.

 

## 

* * *

 

Per Lt. Colonel Vincent, a full battery of tests were run on Edwards, including a CT Scan with the new machine. Miller proved friendly and capable in her tour of the machine’s specs and capabilities. 

Watson was impressed. “This is the one that uses garnets, right? What do they call it?”

Miller tossed him the manual. “Gemstone Spectral Imaging. Delivers images 100 times faster, with up to 33% greater detail in the body and 47% greater detail in the heart.”

_Oh, she was good._

“Beats the hell out of our MDCT in Bastion,” Watson said.

“Could be worse, could be a spiral CT,” she said, with a groan. “Then again, even that’s better than nothing. Before I joined the army, I worked for this clinic in the North Carolina mountains – super rural, the region paid for part of my medical school in exchange for me working there for a few years.”

_Oh. So, not **that** young…_

“What sorts of things did you treat there?”

“The usual,” she said, . “Mostly GP stuff, lots of obstetrics.”

“Nothing else to do on the mountain, I guess?”

She laughed. “You’ve know it - but the practice had no tech, like, nothing. I had to beg, borrow and steal my way to a decent sonogram machine, even. In the end, it made me a better doctor.”

“You think?”

“Sure. Had to do work-arounds. Necessity is the mother of invention.”

The importance of invention notwithstanding, it was exciting to Watson to lay hands on all this new gear and to see how easy it was to diagnose a patient with the latest toys. He tried his best not to feel like the poor relation. Fact of the matter is, it was good for Watson to know what they had here.  Who knows, maybe there would be more trips like this in his future, if an agreement could be made between the two camps.

Once Edwards was scanned, a nurse wheeled him back to the ward, and Miller went about shutting the machines and computers in the control room down.

“So,” Watson said, “How long do we have to wait before the scan results get in?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, in Bastion, our remote reporting system usually returns results within an hour,” Watson explained, “I’m just trying to sort out a tentative schedule for our follow-up meeting with Vincent.”

“Oh,” Miller smiled nervously, “Well, ah…we have radiologists on staff, so the results are already in.”

Watson was gob-smacked, utterly speechless. Having radiologists on staff was the one thing his superiors had personally fought him on, saying there was no need to house and feed local radiologists when remote ones could do the job just as well.

Miller saw him blanch, and struggled to put things in perspective. “Look, between the gear and the manpower, I know it seems…out of balance? But if it helps to know, the truth is, we’re not as well-equipped as we’d like.” She paused, trying to figure how much was too much to share.  “Everybody wants to fund the sexy tech machines, you know, but no one wants to buy the basics. Pentagon blames it on protocol problems, I don’t know…”

“Great, yeah, so we have bandages and tongue depressors, those miracles of modern science…” Watson grumbled, finally finding his voice. Miller could downplay her situation all she wanted, but that didn’t change the fact that the Yanks could get diagnoses a full hour before the Brits – and sometimes, an hour meant the difference between life and death. “I’m, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “The frugality of my government is not your fault. Let’s just try and focus on what we can do to help Edwards.”

Miller nodded, and they got back to work. Watson had to admit, the Captain proved to be excellent company. With an earnest air that sharply contrasted her sunny features, she was quick and not put off at all by Watson’s lousy bedside manner. Together they ran as many tests as they could think of, in the hopes of confirming the state of Edwards’ health, but also in the hopes of finding something – anything - on which they could hang a reasonable travel restriction, to give the boy time to recover before returning home.

“So, his ECG was clear, and the sonogram of his heart showed nothing to be concerned about,” she said, flipping through the lab computer’s files. “His CT scan didn’t show us anything we hadn’t expected to see. It’s all good news, really.”

“Except for the broken ribs.”

“And that’s nothing that he won’t recover from.”

“Nor will it keep him off that plane,” Watson said, crossing his arms, leaning against the stainless steel table. “There has to be something...I don’t suppose we could fake tuberculosis?” he joked.

Miller lifted her brow. “Not unless you want to start a public panic."

"Hmm," Watson said, pretending to consider it, and then dismissing it with a shake of his head. "Perhaps we shouldn't add pestilence to Afghanistan's troubles right now."

"Good call, Captain," Miller said, with a smirk. “You didn’t operate on his stomach in Bastion?”

“Nope. Although I suppose we could give him a colonoscopy, argue that he might have air in his colon as a result?”

“Still won’t keep him off the plane. We’d have to find a polyp or something and this kid’s clean as a whistle.” 

“He is a kid, too, isn’t he?” Watson thought for a good long moment. “Alright, hear me out. He’s young. Probably eats for shit – fast food and caffeine here on the base? I know he refused to eat fresh fruit during the trip. Maybe he has an equal lack of interest in vegetables?”

“Ok, I’m with you, but where are you going?”

“Presuming he eats for shit _and_ knowing he lost a lot of blood recently…” Watson led her to a conclusion, his eyes shining.

“Means, he might be a good candidate for…oh! Anaemia.” Miller said,  “Do you think?”

“We have a winner!” Watson pointed at her, triumphantly. “Less hemoglobin in the blood means less oxygen-carrying capacity, so the patient’s restricted from flight until they correct the deficit.”

“And correcting the deficit can take a week or two…”

“…which is more than enough time for Edwards to be well on his way to recovery."

“Hot damn, you’re a genius, Watson,” Miller said, and reached for the computer keyboard. “Now let’s see. Jackson did a CBC when the kid first arrived, here’s hoping the results corroborate a diagnosis.”

“Even if they don’t, we could, theoretically, run it again,” Watson suggested, casually. “You know, rehydrate him, re-do the test, hope that the bone marrow response hasn’t a chance to kick in yet?”

“Oh, you’re bad, Captain Watson.” Her eyes slid to him, and Watson knew that look. That was the look of someone who, in fact, found “bad” to be quite good.

_And wasn’t that an ego boost?_

He shot her an equally loaded look. “Nothing wrong with nudging the rules, from time to time.”

“You _are_ trouble,” she teased, and then buttoned right up. “ _As is_ peripheral cyanosis or thrombo-embolism, which is precisely what would happen if we were to try and “treat” a patient for _a condition he doesn’t have_.” 

Watson shrugged. “Only one way to find out - check the CBC!” 

She tapped in some numbers on the keyboard, entered in a code and opened the file while Watson watched. She frowned at the monitor and narrowed her eyes. ”I don’t believe it,” she said, and turned the screen his way.

Right there on the monitor, the letters “HCT” stood beside the  “34”. Watson’s mouth dropped.  

“There is no way we are this lucky…”

“You knew, didn’t you?” Miller accused, turning the monitor back. “You diagnosed him back in Bastion, or in the ambulance or something?” 

Watson shook his head. “We didn’t have the means at the time, so we took a gamble that he didn’t need a transfusion,” he said. “Now I’m glad we didn’t.”

“This is insane. So he’s safe,” she said, making a notation on his digital file. “He’s actually anaemic, so he’s grounded, at least for a couple of weeks.”

“Nice for a good surprise every now and again,” Watson said, feeling pretty chuffed.

Miller agreed, and closed the file. “Shall we go tell him the good news?”

“What? That he’s got loads of liver and spinach casseroles in his future?”

“Let’s not scare him,” she said. “Some iron supplements and maybe a B-12 shot might be easier for him to stomach, at least at first.”

“True. 34 grams per litre. I still can’t believe it.” Watson marveled, and watched her log out of the system. “But be honest, Captain. If things _hadn’t_ come up the right way, are you really telling me that you wouldn’t have rerun the test?”

“Maybe,” she said, turning to him. “But only if I thought it would genuinely render a more accurate result.”

Watson cocked his head.. “Are you always this by-the-book, Miller?”

“Are you always this reckless, Watson?” She challenged, and then softened. “Look, you’re cute as hell,” she said, “But happily, everything’s turned out just right enough for us not to have to have this debate, so let’s count our blessings.”

The sting of her words was diminished greatly by the fact that she’d called him cute. “As hell,” even. He beamed. “Fair enough. Let’s go see Edwards.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” said a voice behind them.

Watson froze, and turned to find Major Sholto standing in the doorway.

“Captain…Miller, is it?” Sholto asked, his tone exceedingly polite, formal and thoroughly venomous.

Reading the room, she nodded, mutely, in response.

Sholto continued. “If you wouldn’t mind tending to Edwards on your own?” he said, turning his gaze to Watson, “There are a few things Captain Watson and I must discuss before leaving for Bastion. Good afternoon.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes John Watson is his own worst enemy, isn't he?
> 
>  
> 
> END NOTES  
> \- Follower Tease: [Are we there yet?](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/post/146845670753/chapter-9-of-the-jolto-fic-war-is-hell-will-post)
> 
> \- Who pays almost 70 quid for Skype? [British soldiers in Bastion, apparently](http://www.alphr.com/news/broadband/378559/uk-troops-pay-90-to-access-skype-from-afghanistan).
> 
> \- [SSG. Heathe N. Craig](http://fastsurgeon.blogspot.com/2010/05/memorial-day-weekend-part-ii.html) and the [Craig](http://archive.defense.gov/news/newsarticle.aspx?id=3259) [Joint](http://www.statesman.com/news/news/local/at-afghanistan-hospital-texas-troops-treat-the-w-1/nRnLq/) [Theater](http://afghanidan.blogspot.com/2006/06/bagram-and-gomorrah.html) [Hospital](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bagram_Airfield). 
> 
> \- [Impressive, or outright terrifying?](https://vimeo.com/99939199)
> 
> \- [GE’s High Definition CT Scanner with “Gemstone Spectral Imaging”](http://www.businesswire.com/news/home/20080513005599/en/GE-Healthcare-Announces-Worlds-High-Definition-CT) was announced in May, 2008.
> 
> \- [“Craig Joint Theater Hospital Receives Exclusive new CT Scanner”](http://www.afcent.af.mil/Units/455thAirExpeditionaryWing/Photos/tabid/5491/igphoto/2001270678/Default.aspx)
> 
> \- _[“MDCT images from the UK-run military hospitals in Iraq and Afghanistan were reported remotely, as the conflict intensity was low and staffing of military radiology was limited. Using this remote reporting system, authorised results were with the referring clinicians within 1 h, at any time of the day, 7 days a week”](http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3611714/)_
> 
> \- _[“Numerous individual instances point to a systemic problem in the military’s supply chain but a blind spot exists between Defense Department vendors and the troops who need the gear and supplies”](http://www.stripes.com/news/lacking-basic-gear-special-operators-stuck-buying-their-own-equipment-1.396109)_
> 
> \- Finally, again, big props to [BakerStMel](bakerstmel.tumblr.com) for fixing my really egregious medical mistakes and medically unethical plot points (seriously, John Watson thanks you for saving his reputation, Mel!)
> 
>  
> 
> And for my readers, thanks for your patience with these boys, and with me. As much as I would have liked to have given them a meaningful encounter the moment they arrived in Bagram, neither of them were capable of it...yet.  
> Next chapter posts on **Sunday, August 1st** \-- thanks for reading!  
>  <3  
> vex.


	10. Bagram Air Base

 

Captain Miller exited promptly, shooting a concerned look Watson’s way as she left.

Watson looked down, not wanting to make things worse.

Sholto cleared his throat, and waited until they were alone to speak. 

“The BFA is repaired, and the cargo has been dispatched,” he said, his voice curt, his tone formal. “We’re clear for departure on your ready, Captain.”

_Captain. Bloody hell._

“I thought,” Watson started, his mind scrambling: How long had Sholto been standing there? What had he heard? He started again. “What I mean is, um…what about our…

_date_

…lunch, Sir?”

Sholto’s face hardened. “I’m not feeling particularly peckish at the moment, Captain. You, however, appear to be _quite_ hungry.”

Watson winced at the dig. “Major – Sholto: believe me, nothing happened.”

“To be dismissed over ‘nothing’ is a cold comfort, Captain,” Sholto hissed, his voice lowered, even in this empty room. He raised his chin, adjusted his beret and levelled his eyes at Watson. “Finish with Edwards. Sate your appetite, however you see fit. I’ll be in the MWR, Skyping my boys. Find me there when you’re ready to go.”

With that, Sholto walked out of the lab.

 

 

* * *

 

Watson spent most of the next hour trying not to think about his superior officer. He went through the motions of getting Edwards sorted, reviewing the rest of the lab work, conferring on treatment plans and signing off on the paperwork that would keep Edwards out of the air. He kept his head down, and he did the work.

And through it all, Captain Miller was neither present, nor did he seek her out.

_Casualty of war._

He felt alternately guilty and unjustly accused. Yes, he and Sholto had a connection, but it wasn’t like he’d actually done anything with Miller. Yes, he’d flirted with her, but she’d had been cute, and honestly, it was almost out of reflex. He’d flirted with her because he bloody well _could_ , couldn’t he? Flirting with her was harmless -- easy and automatic and not tense. No one’s spotless record hung in the balance.  So after driving ten hours in a war zone, after being shot at, after blowing up insurgents, saving Edwards’ life for a second time and being cockteased _literally for hours_ , hell _yes_ he was going to flirt with someone, anyone, who could and would openly flirt back, before he had to go back out there and do it all again. Keyword OPENLY. 

“Whoa, man, you want to ease up on those fists?”

Edwards’ words brought Watson back to the here and now. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re clenching your fists so hard, your knuckles are white,” Edwards said, nodding to Watson’s hands.

He didn’t have to look down to know it was the truth. Some people carry their tension in their shoulders; others in their jaws. Watson had always carried it in his fists, which had proved handy when he was younger and more prone to scrapping.

“Sorry,” he said, and flexed his fingers, forcing them to relax. “Been a long day, to say the least.”

“The arsehole?”

“You know, not everything is about him,” Watson said, and pulled a stool up to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alive,” he smiled, “And anaemic, they say? They gave me some pills and a shot, brought me lunch and told me that man can’t live on Pizza Hut alone, apparently.”

Watson grinned. “Yeah, well, technically, man _can_ , he just needs to swing by the salad bar every once in a while, as well.” He poked at the half-eaten lunch tray that sat next to Edwards’ bed.

“Could be worse. At least they gave you chocolate milk.”

“Oh, I forgot -- was saving that for dessert!” Edwards pressed the button that raised his bed, and Watson helped out by opening the carton.

“Thanks,” Edwards said, taking a sip. Just as he did, a nurse entered the room, loudly banging his cart into the doorway, waking the ward and startling Edwards.

Chocolate milk spilled down his front and onto his bedding. “Shit,” he said.

Watson scrambled to pick up the carton, and pull away the top sheet, containing the spill.

The nurse – a tall, muscled guy who in civilian life would look perfectly at home inside a professional wrestling ring – rushed over, and tried to lend a hand. “That’s my bad, Captain, let me—“

“—I’ve got this - you get some clean linens and a fresh gown,” he demurred, as he wiped away the milk nearing one of the bandages on the lad’s left thigh. The nurse did as ordered.

“Sorry, Doc,” Edwards said, and went quiet for a moment. “This is new, you know? This skittishness. This isn’t me.”

“You’ve been at war, you were injured, you almost died – it’s to be expected,” Watson reassured him. “Frankly, if you weren’t at least a little on edge, I’d worry.”

“How long will it last?”

“Hard to say,” Watson put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Getting you healthy, getting you home will help. That’s all you need to worry about for now.”

“What if I end up like Philip?”

“You won’t,” Watson said. “Your brain is fine, the MRI showed no signs of TBI. What you’re feeling now is the normal reaction of a person who has been through this hell.”

Edwards huffed out a relieved breath. “No TBI. Thank god.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Watson smiled, and clapped him on his shoulder.

Edwards nodded as the nurse returned with the clean linens. Watson pulled the privacy curtain around his bed, and the nurse explained the process of changing the sheets with Edwards still in them.

“We’ll strip one side of the bottom sheet, replace it with a new one, roll you over, strip the other side and then pull the clean one out from under you,” he said, in a way that indicated this was a speech he gave multiple times a day, every day. “We’ll roll you to one side and then the other, got it?”

“Cool, yeah,” Edwards said, a flicker of concern on his face. “Oh, hey – actually, Doc – would you mind being on my right? Since my injuries are on my left, I’m likely gonna need some muscle to pull me over to that side, if you know what I mean. Would you mind?”

Watson furrowed his brow. The nurse was built like a brick wall, for sure, but Watson had literally carried Edwards on his shoulder for miles back to Bastion – he knew firsthand that Watson was more than capable of lifting him. Something was definitely up.

Still, they changed sides, and together, Watson and the nurse rolled Edwards onto his right side. The nurse folded the dirty linen over itself, tightly tucking it under Edwards’ side. The clean sheet followed, and was also tucked underneath. He raised the bedrail.

“And the other,” Watson said, and lowered the bedrail on his side. They gently pushed Edwards over onto his left side, and Watson repeated the process, folding the linen and tucking it under him  - and that’s when he immediately understood why the lad had requested the change-up. He kept his mouth shut, and quickly finished his side. Watson and the nurse lowered him onto his back, and the nurse made his exit.

Behind the semi-privacy of the still-pulled curtain, Watson settled into the stool at  Edwards’ bedside and waited.

Eventually, Edwards spoke. “’Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,’ right?” he said, looking sheepish. “Thing is, no one exactly needs to _ask_ when you have a rainbow flag tattooed on your ass.”

Watson nodded. “Such an idiotic rule. Not that it’s any better, really, in the UK, in the army at least. Not yet.” Watson said carefully. “That nurse - you think he would’ve caused trouble?”

“Probably not,” Edwards said. “But you never know.”

“How do you know I won’t?”

“Doc, come on…” Edwards said, humoring him with a knowing shake of his head.

Watson felt a cold shock run through him, the lad’s expression doing nothing to help quell his knee-jerk impulse to deny, deny, deny.

“Um, Edwards, no offense, lad, but,” Watson said, lowering his voice, as if DADT agents were around every corner. “I’m not gay.”

And there it was: Watson’s best dodge. The dodge that was born the day Harry came out to their parents.The hysterical drama that followed only served to reinforce Watson’s commitment to keeping his mouth shut and only telling people what they needed to know. The dodge was a truth that was not a lie - because he wasn’t any more “gay” than he was “straight”, now was he?

“I never said you were,” Edwards shook his head. ”Interestingly enough, unless those twin boys came from a marriage of convenience, neither is he.”

_Fuck._

“Leave him out of this.”

“Protective.” Edwards remarked, with a smile. “So you really do care.”

“I said,” Watson leaned in, his voice firm. “Leave him _out_ of this.”

Edwards lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m not trying to upset you.”

Watson stared at the lad in the bed, and ran through the events of the trip, running through the moments, trying to sort out how Edwards could have sorted it out, what he might have witnessed, what Watson had done wrong, what misstep, a mad panic of replaying the day over and over in his head, imagining what he’d seen.

_He couldn’t have seen the kiss. He couldn’t have seen them behind the bonnet. He might’ve heard Sholto go cold over his joke after the bombing. At the time, he’d seemed so absorbed in the binoculars, but maybe—_

“Doc, stop.” Edwards chided. “Your hands again.”

Watson looked down this time, and saw them shaking. He scrubbed them over his face. “Look, whatever you think you saw or heard on the trip, Edwards, it didn’t happen.”

Edwards laughed. “I had you figured out in Bastion, the way you over-the-top came on to the nurses, but down-low checked out the fellas? Smooth.”

“You know, I’m really beginning to regret dragging you out of the crossfire,” Watson said, and crossed his arms. Clearly the dodge didn’t work as well with the younger generation. Clearly his discretion at Bastion left a lot to be desired. Clearly he was fucked. In the face of Edwards’ reveal, and subsequent attempt to make him do the same, Watson did something he never expected to do: he panicked. Which meant, when push came to shove…

_…I’m not any more evolved than Sholto._

Everything suddenly felt very close. “I…gotta go, “ Watson said. “But don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone, okay?”

“It’s okay,” Edwards smiled. “I won’t either.”

 

 

* * *

 

 **Take your time** _._ **JW**

They were sitting six feet apart in the base’s makeshift “internet café”. All around them were American soldiers calling home, earbuds ensuring privacy, at least on one end of the conversation. In this spare room, soldiers reassured loved ones and put off loneliness, for as long as they could. 

Sholto was still Skyping with his children – two eager and enthusiastic tow-headed six-year-olds, lifting new toys to the camera. It was a candid moment, and Watson watched him for a bit, an unseen observer, watching the ready smiles and easy laughter he shared with his boys. Not wanting to interrupt Sholto’s call, he asked the private at the front desk if he could simply message Sholto’s terminal while he was on the call. The soldier nodded, and gave him Sholto’s username.

Watson slipped into one of the free stations and sent him his message.

When the first popup message appeared on Sholto’s screen, he sat up, immediately on the alert, and looked behind him, seeing Watson at last. Watson nodded to the screen and turned back to his terminal. Sholto shot him a slight scowl and turned back, returning to his conversation with the kids.

Watson sent a second message:

**When you’re done, though, we need to talk. JW**

As soon as he hit “send”, he winced, and hoped it didn’t sound half as nagging as it sounded in his own head. He cut his eyes to Sholto’s back, and watched the man read. Sholto immediately fired off a response.

**The only thing we need to do is to head out. Are you RTM? JSS**

_Oh, so, it’s like that, is it?_

Watson shook his head in annoyance, and sent off a third message, the last word added only because protocol demanded it.

**I’ll be in Exam Room #7 when you finish. Sir. JW**

Watson logged out and left the room.

 

 

* * *

 

The door opened. 

“Major.”

“Captain.”

“Have a seat.”  Watson nodded to the exam table, and tried to hide his surprise when Sholto complied without protest. A stainless steel tray stood beside the exam table, where various gauzes and creams had been set out: Watson had decided that if they couldn’t come to terms over their most recent misunderstanding, he was at least going to finally give Sholto’s steam burn proper treatment.

He put on a pair of surgical gloves, and sat down on the rolling stool, speaking without making eye contact. “I presume you’re still in pain?”

“Yes,” Sholto said, the double meaning of his response clear.

Carefully, Watson took the man’s injured arm into his hands, and rolled his sleeve up to his elbow. “Kids okay?”

Sholto looked away. “They’re fine.”

“They look like you,” Watson said, as he gently removed the man’s bandage, the edges of the gauze brown from Shoto’s sweat and the sand. Underneath, however, was as clean as could be expected. Some blisters had risen beneath the bandage. One had ruptured. Watson had to remind himself that not everything was a metaphor.

“That’s a compliment,” Sholto admitted, stiffly. “Their mother—oh, that’s better.”

Watson had applied cool, sterile, saline-soaked gauze to his wound, and kept it in place with the light pressure of his fingers. “Cooling always makes a burn less angry,” he said, “even hours after.”

“Burns are easily appeased, then.”

Watson ignored the dig. “What were you saying about the boys’ mother?”

Sholto closed his eyes. “Their mother is fair as well. I actually think they favor her more.”

Watson meditated on that fact as he removed the cooling gauze and cleaned the wound. “So…you’ve a type, then?”

“A type?” Sholto opened his eyes.

“Blonds,” he said, simply, and winked.

“Stop flirting, Captain. I’m still mad at you.”

Watson continued, unflustered.  “You’re not allergic to sulfa drugs, are you?”

“No,” Sholto answered, and watched as Watson covered his burn in a thin layer of Silvadene cream, followed by a lidocaine gel so cold that it made Sholto hiss at first touch. At second touch, he began to relax into its quick reprieve from pain.

Watson acknowledged his change in posture. “See? And without a single needle!”

“You would bring that up…”

Watson capped the two tubes of cream, and shook his head. “I’m just trying to get a bead on your pain management.”

“I’ve been managing just fine,” Sholto said, with an annoyed look. “I mean it -- don’t think my allowing treatment is any indication that I’ve forgiven you.”

“No, I wouldn’t make that kind of mistake,” Watson said, carefully lifting a clean bandage over the burn, pressing down the taped edges, sealing the injury. “Injuries take time to heal fully, even accidental ones.”

“I wouldn’t call this one accidental,” Sholto said, eyebrow arched, rolling down his sleeve as he spoke. “But I will say it was of my own doing. I made a careless mistake – and put myself in a position to be hurt.”

Although Watson had started it, he didn’t know whether to applaud Sholto’s upping the ante on the passive aggression or call him out on it. In the end, he stood up, and did both. “Bravo, Major, equating my actions with those of a spitting radiator. Really, quite cutting. Now, can we now stop playing this game and talk about what happened?”

“We should get on the road.”

“You stand up and I will prescribe you a fucking tetanus shot, I swear to god,” Watson warned, arm outstretched. It was perhaps the most laughable threat he’d ever issued, but it worked, and Sholto stayed put.

“Okay, good. I’ll start then.” Watson stripped off his gloves and threw them away. “I’m sorry I flirted with someone, but honestly, the only reason I did was because I couldn’t flirt with you.”

“Right, and that’s my problem, is that it?” Sholto replied, his tone sarcastic. “What happened with the girl? Did she turn you down?”

“What?”

“After I left the lab. She turned you down, didn’t she?”

“I haven’t seen her since the three of us were together,” Watson answered, honestly. “And I haven’t looked for her. You think I would really do that?”

“Let’s just say I’m familiar with your reputation, Captain.”

“The past doesn’t dictate the present.” Watson said, defensively. “Look: Your spotless record requires I not flirt with you in public. It’s frustrating. I was frustrated.”

Sholto eyed him cautiously. “This situation with Miller, then, was not motivated by desire for _her_ , but desire for _me_? You actually expect me to believe that?

“It’s the truth,” Watson said firmly. “After all those hours in the car, I’d been looking forward to…”

“To what?”

“I DON’T KNOW.  I thought once we’d dropped Edwards off, we’d have a moment alone, and…” Watson said, trailing off. “But then I saw you just turn it off the minute another person came into view, and I knew getting together here at Bagram wasn’t any more likely than it would be at Bastion.” Watson shrugged, embarrassed. “I was disappointed.”

“So what you’re saying, Captain,” Sholto said incredulously, “Is that your actions with Captain Miller were all a result of you having a grand _sulk_?”

The tone of the conversation turned then, on that word, and their eyes caught.

Watson cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said, pulse racing.

“Yes what, Captain?”

“Yes, Major.”

“Soldiers don’t sulk, Captain,” Sholto said, “Brats sulk.” Sholto stood and dismissively ran a rough hand through Watson’s hair, tugging hard at the end.

“Exam Room doors don’t lock, Captain. Find me a room that does, and we’ll see about sorting out the consequences of your actions.”

 

 

* * *

 

When Watson returned, and led him to the locking room, even Sholto had to laugh.

“A _closet_ , Captain?”

“A linen closet, yes, Major.”

“Still: a _closet_?”

“Seemed appropriate,” Watson said with a smirk, slipping the lock and pulling off his shirt as he turned. “For both of us.”

“Both? So you’re admitting—“

“—yes.” Watson said, eagerly moving his hands to Sholto’s trouser button. “It’s recently come to my attention that I’m perhaps—“

“Don’t touch that,” Sholto scolded, pushing his hands away, but pulling his mouth close, biting his lips. “Consequences, remember?”

Watson groaned, and his thudding cock pulsed a beat of regret. Sholto stripped off his own shirt, and promptly shoved Watson back, walking him to the back of the small space and lifted him up and over a short rolling linen cabinet. “You acted like a child out there, not a soldier.”

Watson had barely processed the fact that the older man had picked him up as easily as a sack of potatoes when he heard the sound of a webbed belt moving through canvas. His head snapped back, appalled.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Continuing the British Military’s long tradition of discipline.” Sholto said, a smug humor in his voice.

Watson shook his head. “You can’t do that. You won’t. They’ll hear.”

Sholto shrugged, bending the belt into a lash that ran the length of his forearm. “You don’t even realize how badly you need this. Otherwise, why else would you have chosen the most soundproofed room in this base?”

Watson looked at the room behind him, a deepish, narrow hall, lined with floor-to-ceiling metal wire shelves, each one stuffed to the brim with clean towels, blankets and bedding. Sholto was right. The sound was so dampened, he could scream bloody murder in this closet and he _might_ be heard, if someone happened to be walking by at the exact moment. Anything less than that, though, and not a sound would be heard.

_Fuck…_

“Do you agree?” Sholto looked down at him sternly, and Watson felt a little part of himself give way.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a rasp. “I mean, yes, Major. I need this.”

Sholto moved quickly, then, pressing him down over the towel-topped cart and pulling his trousers down with his pants in one studied move. Watson barely had time to catch his breath before the blows came, one after the other in quick succession.

“Corporal Punishment may have been abolished in the British Army in 1881,” Sholto said, his voice low as the belt continued its assault, “but it’s still in practice today, unofficially.”  

Watson squirmed as the strokes moved from being mostly embarrassing to increasingly more painful. He swallowed hard and moaned into the towels beneath him, the punished skin growing warm.

“It still happens, even to officers. Even in Sandhurst. True story. I’m surprised it didn’t happen when you were found out, lad.”

Watson’s face burned at the mention of Sandhurst, and he squirmed again when he realised his hips were now moving in time with the strokes. He was grinding his cock into the towels, and in spite of the pain and shame of the punishment, the rutting felt like heaven.

“A soldier needs discipline, Captain,” Sholto said, his chest just starting to shine from exertion, his breath coming fast and heavy.

An especially hard stroke came just then, and pulled a shocked shout from Watson. If Sholto kept on like this, no amount of soundproofing would save them. Watson felt himself spiraling, his want and his shame and the pain all building.

“If you’re to be with me, Captain, you must remain in command of your own actions,” Sholto said, his breath coming fast and heavy. “Apologize.”

Watson spoke into the towels, a muffled apology that wasn’t good enough.

“You can do better,” Sholto said, and sent one last warning blow against the tender backs of Watson’s thighs.

Watson lifted his head, and turned to look at Sholto, his eyes still dry, but his expression pained. “I’m sorry, Major. I will be better.”

“Yes, you will.” Sholto said, with confidence, and dropped his belt. “Now stand up, Watson. Come get your reward.”

Watson did as he was told, easing back onto his feet. The fact that Sholto had reverted back to his proper surname, and not his rank, didn’t go unnoticed by Watson. Sholto flicked the button on his trousers and dropped his zip. Watson fell in line, and pulled open his own trouser front before taking Sholto into his mouth, pulling back his foreskin to reveal his sticky red head.

Sholto was braced against the wire shelving, his hands gripping the racks as Watson went to work, and then it was Sholto’s turn to stay in command of his own actions. He stifled himself with his forearm, huffing out a long breath as Watson lived up to his dissolute reputation. “S-stroke yourself while you—“

“—already ahead of you.” Watson confirmed, pulling back so Sholto could see his cock hard and leaking into his own hand before resuming his oral efforts. Nearly twelve hours of off and on teasing and anticipation had left them both on edge, and it was clear that it wasn’t going to take long, for either of them.

“Come on, Watson.”

“So close.”

Sholto’s hand took hold of Watson’s jaw and pulled him in tighter, growling. “Cum for me, Watson, I swear if—“

The door handle rattled.

They both stopped, and Sholto put a finger up to his lips. Neither breathed. Maybe whoever it was would move on, and after all, they couldn’t get in anyway, the door was locked, right? If they just kept quiet…

The handle rattled again.

Giggles were suppressed, and Watson quietly attempted to resume his efforts, but all that came to an abrupt halt when the rattling promptly turned into a scratching of metal at the lock.

Whoever it was outside, they had a key.

Panicked, they both scrambled for their clothes…

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close, but not close enough, Watson...
> 
>  
> 
> END NOTES:  
> \- Follower Tease: [More towels, please!](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/perverselyvex/148246134352)
> 
> \- [A nice pictorial of life in Afghanistan](http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/world/a-soldiers-life-in-afghanistan/article1346267/) – pic #7 shows what Bagram’s not-so-private hospital beds look like, and the curtains that separate them. 
> 
> \- [Edwards’ Tattoo](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/81/99/ef/8199ef3b21d2ed43296c888e6c695771.jpg)
> 
> \- Useful skill: [a step-by-step guide to making an occupied bed](https://cnaexamcram.com/cna-skill-set-making-an-occupied-bed/)
> 
> \- Do you remember [“Don’t ask, don’t tell” (DADT)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don%27t_ask,_don%27t_tell)? 
> 
> \- [The “Internet Café”](http://armymomstrong.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/Internet_cafe_inside_Bagram_Air_Base.jpg) at Bagram. 
> 
> \- [Ambulatory management of burns](http://www.aafp.org/afp/2000/1101/p2015.html) – more medical research for those interested (some squicky pics, but good information!) 
> 
> \- [Is Corporal Punishment still practiced in the British military?](http://www.corpun.com/counuka.htm) According to [this first-hand account](http://www.milism.net/s95cp.htm), it is, often.
> 
> \- [Linen](http://a3.southwestsolutions.com/images/gallery/clothing-storage-shelving-Texas-Oklahoma-Arkansas-Kansas-Tennessee/hospital-linen-storage-shelving-high-density.jpg) [closet](http://i00.i.aliimg.com/img/pb/827/667/423/423667827_694.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> Next time, are you ready for their solo roadtrip? I know I am! ;-p
> 
>  
> 
> If you're going to D*C, BTW, feel free to drop me a line and we can say "hey"!
> 
> 8/20/16: Heads up y'all: my laptop died this week and sadly took Chapter 11 with it! Therefore I will NOT be posting an update on 8/21...however, have no fear! As soon as I sort out my computer issues, I'll be back up with the new chapter!
> 
> vex.


	11. On the Road: Bagram Air Base to Mir Bacha Kot (34 km)

 

The spare moments between the rattling of the lock and the opening of the door were frantic, to say the least: the dash to get back into their clothes, buckling and zipping, hands running through hair and over mouths, attempting to cover up any and all evidence of impropriety. With barely time to cover themselves, there was no time to craft a reasonable cover story -- so when the door finally did open, both men were expecting to have to do a little improvised song and dance to explain themselves. What they hadn't expected was that the person on the other side of the door would be none other than Captain Miller.

“Oh, I…Captain Watson?” She looked from one man to the other with surprise.

John's mouth opened and shut as he tried to sort out a reasonable response. When it came clear that a response wasn't coming, Sholto stepped in.

“...and Major Sholto,” he said, with a formal nod, which was really quite ridiculous, under the circumstances. “We meet again.”  
She saluted him, and swiveled her eyes back towards Watson. “What are you doing in here…with the door…locked?”

_We’re screwed, it’s over. Sholto’s record will earn its first black mark because I was a fucking flirt…_

This time, Watson didn't even try to formulate a response, and instead looked expectantly to Sholto, who hesitated for a moment, and then shot her an apologetic look.

“Classified, I’m afraid," He said, simply. "We had to take a quick telephone conference and this seemed the most confidential space at hand. I do hope we didn’t inconvenience you?”

Watson looked from Miller to Sholto and back again, in utter disbelief.

 _Holy shit, James Sholto has the biggest fucking balls in the whole of the United Kingdom, good night, god bless, amen, the END._  
  
“Classified?” Her brow furrowed, and Watson braced himself for whatever came next. She leaned in closer to Sholto. “Would this have anything to do with…that other matter?”

_Wait..._

“Actually, yes it does,” Sholto nodded, completely unflustered.

_...what?_

“We were just confirming dates. But,” Sholto said, with some finality, “We should really be off before it gets too late. Hoping to make it back to Bastion before midnight.”

She checked her watch. “Oh, yes, you should get a move on,” she said, and, grabbing a stack of towels -- "I'd better not forget these, right?" -- escorted them back out into the hall. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Captain Watson – and thank you both for bringing Edwards home, I’m sure his parents will be very grateful.”

“You’d do the same for one of our boys, I’m sure,” Watson said, the ache in his arse reminding him to choose his words carefully.

“Of course,” she said, with a confidential tone. "You know, I missed you this afternoon. Was hoping to show you the new MRI."

Watson cut his eyes to Sholto, who was doing a remarkable job of pretending not to listen. "Sorry, things got a bit hectic," Watson explained. "Trying to sort out Edwards' paperwork proved more...well, taxing...than expected."

"That happens," Miller said, with a squint, her tone far less reassuring than her words. She looked back to Sholto, curiously, before returning her gaze to Watson, and he wasn't sure if he'd fumbled his vague explanation, or if she'd simply tuned into the lingering tension between the two men.

He held his breath and waited for the accusation, the insinuation, but it never came. Instead, she seemed to shift gears, quickening her pace and brightening her smile. “You know," she said, "If Edwards' father really does get the VP nom, you both might get a letter of thanks from the White House.”

Watson smiled, playing along. “That’d be great.”

Sholto agreed. "It would indeed."

The three of them paused, somewhat awkwardly, at the end of the hall.

“Well, I’m going this way,” Miller pointed to the right, in the direction of the labs.

“We’re going to the ward, to say goodbye to Edwards,” Watson said, nodding to the left.

Sholto cleared his throat. “Thank you for your hospitality, Captain Miller. Please extend our thanks to your CO.”

“Yes, thanks,” Watson added, to be polite.

“Safe travels,” she said, and turned the corner.

Watson and Sholto quickly walked in the direction of the ward. As soon as they were out of earshot, Watson all but high-fived Sholto. "That was bloody brilliant! You're amazing!"

"Yes, I'm an amazing liar, imagine that," Sholto smirked, but a smile curled up the corners of his mouth. "Mother would be so proud. By the way, before you celebrate any further--"

"Nothing you can say will puncture my spirits right now. But go on and give it a shot."

"Oh, it's nothing, really," Sholto grinned. "Except, before we go into the ward, you should probably be made aware."

"Aware of what?"

"Of that shilling you have on the counter," he said, and pointedly glanced down to Watson's trouser front.

“I...what?” Watson paused, and followed his glance downwards. “Oh, shit,” he said, and turned toward the wall to tend to his zip as discreetly as possible before punching the man's arm. "You utter arse, you knew the whole time?"

"Just at the end there. I don't believe she noticed," Sholto said, and added, rather smugly. "But I certainly enjoyed the view."

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

“So you guys are heading back?”

Sholto and Watson stood beside Edwards’ bed. His color was good, and Watson felt confident that given ample time to recuperate, he’d make a full recovery.

“Yes, the BFA’s been repaired, and they’ve replenished the water and petrol,” Sholto said.  
“Should be a much easier drive back.”

“No engine trouble, no IEDs, no pain-in-the-ass patients?” Edwards said with a grin.

Watson mock-groaned. “Especially that last one,” he agreed. “Don’t forget to let me know when you get back home, yeah?”

“Yes, mother hen.”

“Shut it, Yank, or I'll prescribe you a liver milkshake."

"Boys," Sholto intervened, and Watson couldn't help but feel a little shiver. The closer he got to Sholto, the more difficult it was not to respond to him. He felt like his own want was audible, a thin quaver of desire, humming between the two of them. They needed to get out of the public eye as soon as possible, and it was clear that the only place they were going to be able to do that was out on the road.

They said their goodbyes to Edwards, and Sholto excused himself to go handle some last minute packing for the BFA.

"Hey Doc, before you go," Edwards said, rummaging through his pack, "I've got something for you." He pulled out his notebook, and began ruffling through the pages.

"Edwards, come on, we've been through this: you don't owe me a thing."

"Yeah, I do," he said, and lit upon the page he'd been looking for. "Right. Here we go. Now: not that long ago, I said you needed fixing."

"Right," Watson nodding his head, remembering the conversation. "Because I'm enjoying the war too much?"

"You enjoy danger too much."

"Same difference."

"Not really," Edwards said, and slowly began to tear a page from the notebook. "The good news is, though, you've managed to find the fix on your own, haven't you?"

Watson narrowed his eyes, a smile on his lips. "I don't quite follow," he said, genuinely confused.

"Yeah, you do." Edwards held out the torn page to Watson. "Which makes this less of a prescription and more of a congratulations."

Watson took the paper and opened it, not expecting the image he saw. Like all of Edwards' work, it was a pencil sketch, but this one was different in that it was rich in detail, a study in shadow and light. Watson recognized the image immediately, and it shot him back to precisely that time and place, just a handful of hours earlier. The sketch showed the view out of the back of the BFA, after they'd blown up the IEDs -- the darkness of the back of the cab, the brightness that emanated from the fire ignited by the explosion, and between the two were the backs of Sholto and Watson, looking out on the destruction. It was an artful representation of the two men in partial silhouette, Sholto's rigid shoulders, the wisps of hair at the back of John's neck, every element of their countenances rendered in perfect shadowed detail, true to life, but for one specific detour from reality.

Watson looked up, flattered, curious. "I...this is lovely, Edwards, but why..."

"You know why, Doc," he said, with a frankness that can only come from someone so young.

Watson remembered that moment, looking out onto the remains of the explosion, side-by side with Sholto. They'd passed the binoculars back and forth, from one to the other, until they'd finally passed them to Edwards. Sholto had complimented him, and it was that singular moment right before Watson attempted the joke that kicked off a fight, and later, secret snogging. John knew for a fact that they hadn't been indiscreet enough to brush fingers, much less hold each other’s hands, but in the sketch, they were.

"It's remarkable," Watson said, not able to take his eyes off the drawing. "I suppose asking how you know is foolish?"

"It's obvious when you know what to look for," Edwards said. "He's better at playing straight than you are. You get angry or flush and stammer if someone asks too many questions."

"Oh, cheers for that," Watson's tone was sarcastic, but his face told a different story, one of a man finally able to breathe. He ran his hands gingerly down the page. "You said this had been the fix for my problem?"

"Nothing more dangerous than one soldier being in love with another soldier, no matter whose army you're in, no matter what laws they pass." Edwards said, quietly. "No need to go charging into battle to get your adrenaline fix when you're constantly charged with keeping a secret in this man's army. Every glance, every touch, every encounter becomes a mission."

Watson looked up from the sketch, Edwards' words striking a familiar note. "So, what's his name?"

Edwards winked, and flipped the sketch book to the beginning, turning it so Watson could see. "Hank. I'm not his superior, but he shares your danger fetish. He's home now, safe and sound and slowly going insane. When I get home, I'm guessing we'll...what? Race motorcycles?"

"Jump out of airplanes?"

"Even better," Edwards added, with a bitter grin, "How about Hank and I go public during Dad's campaign?"

Watson winced. "Plenty dangerous, for sure. Should hold him, though."

Edwards nodded his head, and looked up at Watson, gesturing to their surrounding. "And this, all of this, should hold you, too, Doc. Just this. You saved my life on a mission you shouldn't have been on, and I am grateful -- but if you bribe your way onto another dangerous mission, just for kicks, so help me Doc, I will cross the ocean to personally kick your ass. Understood?"

"Yes," Watson said, solemnly. "Understood."

Edwards saluted him then, and while it was a thoroughly appropriate gesture, after all they'd been through, Watson hadn't expected it. It touched him, and Watson returned the salute. "Get well. Get home. And get back to Hank."

Edwards smiled and nodded back. "Keep that sketch close and get the hell back to Bastion, Doc. Stay safe."

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later, Watson and Sholto were back on the road.

The Yanks had overhauled the BFA in record time, replacing the leaking hose and giving it a clean bill of health for the drive back home. Of course, the ambulance itself was still scarred with bullet holes, not much to be done about that, but the broken glass had been carefully swept away, the jagged edges removed from the rear window frame and it was covered with a piece of plywood. The stretcher racks has been stowed and locked shut. All supplies had all been replenished and secured.

Sholto's boxes, however, had completely disappeared.

Curious...but not so curious, really.

Another imponderable: without a patient to watch over, Watson now found himself sitting in the driver's cab. In the driver's cab, but not in the driver's seat, because Sholto refused to relinquish the wheel.

"You know I can drive, right?"

"Sure."

"I mean, you've already driven nearly eight hours today. Why not let me handle the first leg?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

This had all taken place in the garage, with U.S. Army mechanics scurrying all around them. Sholto turned and brusquely responded "Because I said so, Captain," loud enough for the mechanics to hear -- and it took a second for Watson to realise that in that moment, he was speaking to him as his military superior. Sholto caught his confusion, and casting a careful eye to the mechanics, he inconspicuously gripped Watson's wrist, and squeezed a little harder than he needed to. "Because I said so," he said, low enough for only him to hear, and in a tone that indicated he was also speaking to him as an authority entirely unrelated to the British military complex.

Watson's mouth dropped open, and Sholto released him. For the record, it made him uneasy, Sholto's assumption that a dynamic temporarily agreed to in private would continue in public -- but then again, the definition of public, with Sholto, wasn't public at all, was it? Watson knew that he'd have the entire ride home to even up their currently lopsided dynamic, so he chose to enjoy it, entering the passenger's seat with a slight blush.

In Watson’s estimate, the debate between public and private ended the moment they left camp, which meant that as soon as the gates were in the rear view, Watson cut his eyes to Sholto.

"What?" Sholto asked.

"Nothing. Just looking."

"Looking?" Sholto grinned, keeping his eyes on the road in front of them. "And why would you want to look at an old man like me?"

Watson just smiled, and removed his seatbelt, the noise of the metal clip zipping along the nylon sounding almost illicit. Once freed, he angled his body towards Sholto, elbow dangling out the open window. "Because I can?"

It was true. Before the trip, Watson had heard of Sholto, but had never seen him. Shortly after he first met him early that morning in Bastion, they were fighting. By the time the fighting had stopped long enough for him to really look at him, they were separated by a thick interior ambulance wall. In Bagram, that separation went away, but the threat of being seen loomed large. Right now, in the cab of this BFA, was the first time that Watson really had an opportunity to stare at the man with impunity, and he planned to take full advantage.

“You’re better looking than I imagined you’d be," he admitted. "It threw me off, at first."

Sholto darted his eyes to Watson, and then moved them back to the road ahead, a small smile on his lips. "Are you flirting with me?"

"Why? You gonna tell me to stop?"

"Belligerent."

"Not the first time I've been called that," countered Watson. "Besides. Why can't I? No one's watching."

"I'm driving."

"So?"

"It's distracting."

"Is it?"

He paused, and gave a soft, nervous laugh. "Don't make me pull this car over."

_I'm getting to him..._

Watson continued to stare. "Maybe that's my intention."

Sholto huffed out a breath. "What are you after?"

"We have unfinished business."

"We're not even five miles outside of Bagram. Let's at least get into the countryside," Sholto said, with amusement."We've got all the time in the world now, you know?"

Watson shot him a loaded glance, and leaned farther back against the door. "I know. And I don't want to waste a moment."

"And that means?"

Watson arched in place, getting comfortable. Both men had stowed their bulletproof vests and battle shirts behind the seats for the long ride, and being stripped down to just his t-shirt had left Watson feeling light, flexible...undressed. His suppressed erection from the linen closet returned quickly, and he was thinking about being on his knees for Sholto, thinking about almost getting caught, thinking about everything he wanted to do to the Major to make his consummate composure positively crumble. Watson deliberately unbuckled his own trousers, and then, without prelude or permission, ran a hand down the front of his pants, his eyes still locked to Sholto's.

He shuddered beautifully at the touch.

"Captain..."

"That's not my name."

"Watson, then..."

"What?" Hand at his own waistband, pushing aside the cotton, pulling out his cock, and oh, God, Sholto was watching, eyes darting frantically from the road to Watson and back again. He was flustered. More than that--

_oh fuck yes_

\--he was hard. "Pull over."

Sholto shook his head, even as his breathing hitched. "W-we should keep to the...schedule."

"Oh, yeah?" Watson said, intently, and leaned forward, tongue running along his lips, sliding along the naugahyde bench seat until he was curled beside Sholto, until he was breathing into his ear, until he was slowly lowering the man's zip...

"Wats--" Sholto protested, lamely and a half second later, Watson was stretched out across the front seat, wetly rooting out the Major's cock with his mouth, moving to the sounds of his own uncensored groaning. Sholto's fingers gripped the steering wheel, and his eyes frantically moved from the road to Watson's mouth, his cheeks hollowed, his hands stroking the base of his cock, his balls.

Watson wondered if this was the first time Sholto had experienced this particular maddening pleasure. Not the sucking on its own, but the act of being sucked off, specifically, while driving. Knowing what he knew of Sholto, Watson thought him uniquely suited to the experience: being forced to staying composed enough to drive, on the one hand, while on the other, enjoying the illicit sensations going on below. A man used to living a dual life should appreciate that dichotomy.

And appreciate it, he did -- or, at least, it seemed that way to Watson. Sholto's eyes remained stoically on the horizon, but he would huff out his breath whenever Watson pulled particularly hard on the downstroke. He would swallow hard when Watson's tongue lingered along the tip of his cock and his legs spread automatically to give Watson access to his bollocks. It wasn't until Watson used his teeth that Sholto let out an actual groan, and it was glorious. Teeth were in play from then on, to some degree, but Watson was careful not to bite hard enough to leave marks.

When the biting began, Sholto dropped a hand down, gripping Watson's hair but not directing his movements. "Wats-Watson, that's so..." He rasped, his hand white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

"Don't fight it," Watson breathed, one of his hands gripping Sholto's slick, spit-covered cock, the other hand stroking his own. When the taste of pre-cum hit his tongue, he stroked himself harder, to catch up. "You like--" he started, but lost the words that would finish the end of the sentence, losing himself as he let himself drift.

"I do," Sholto agreed.

"No," Watson shook his head, "I meant...men like you..." he started, and continued to speak between taking him increasingly deeper, "...you like men like me..." He took a breath and then punched the critical word, "... boys like me..."

It was a risk. There was not enough of an age difference, mathematically, to justify the dynamic Watson was suggesting -- and frankly, it wasn't the kind of thing that usually got him off -- but between the spanking in the linen closet, the blatant class difference between them, and the fact that Sholto was, in military actuality, his superior, well, somehow, it was working for him. Not that Watson wanted a "Daddy," exactly, but he did like the idea of being his...

"You...wicked little piece of rough," Sholto said, cautiously, but with no small amount of delight.

"Oh, shit yes," Watson groaned, and resumed sucking, rutting into his own hand even harder.

Sholto’s eyes remained on him for as long as they could, only pulling away to keep the ambulance on track. Perhaps emboldened by the increasingly less-populated landscape outside the BFA, Sholto lifted Watson's head up slightly, by the hair. "You coarse cocksucker..."

At the sound of those words, those crisp syllables sounding so foreign coming from Sholto's mouth - Watson couldn't help but wonder, was that the first time he'd said that particular word out loud? - but regardless, Watson moaned, ached, and pushed Sholto closer to that edge. Redoubling his efforts, he took Sholto deep into his mouth, into his throat, wanting to prove how the very crudeness of being a pleb could completely take a man like Sholto apart. "Filthy lads know things, though, don't we?...We know how to suck toffs like you off in cars...let you think you're really the ones in control...when really..." He choked a bit on Sholto's cock, then, swallowing against him, milking him in his throat, lifting up in time to conclude, "...we're the ones calling the shots, aren't we?"

To that, Sholto let out a stream of noises, vulgarities and hip thrusts that most would consider utterly unbecoming to a gentleman. To Watson, however, it was music to his ears. They were both inches away.

Watson raised up onto his knees then, never breaking rhythm, and Sholto took the cue, releasing Watson's hair to reach down for his cock.

“Christ, Watson,” Sholto murmured appreciatively, getting his hand around him properly for the very first time. Yeah, he got that a lot. He could say what he wanted about his parents, but at the very least, the Watsons gifted their son with impressive genetics. Watson responded with a guttural groan that reverberated against Sholto's cock and pulled a similar sound from Sholto, who was still valiantly, inexplicably, keeping them on the road.

"Cum for me, posh," Watson whispered, increasing the pace, and adding, strategically, "No one needs to know."

Watson knew he was greedy, pushing secret, unsavory buttons, buttons he was pretty sure Sholto would never admit to thinking about, much less wanting. He didn't care. He wanted this, he wanted him, and they'd both waited too long to draw it out any farther. At long last, Sholto jerked forward, abruptly pulling the BFA over to the side of the road, and Watson braced, feeling the man's cock shift and stiffen in his mouth.

It was a matter of personal pride that Watson always -- always -- swallowed. Truth was, he loved being swallowed too much to deny anyone else the pleasure. When Sholto finally came, it was at a volume that made Watson wonder how long it had really been since he'd last. He took in as much as he possibly could, in loud, messy swallows and still ended up with his mouth covered, but Sholto certainly didn't seem to care. With a quick glance to reassure himself that they were, in fact, alone on the road, he pulled Watson up and kissed his mouth with fierce abandon.

"You filthy, beautiful boy," Sholto said, breathless, smiling, and pulled him even tighter to him. Watson's own need was not forgotten in the aftermath, and Sholto reached down to resume his efforts. Watson shivered, mouth open, eyes shut, and grinding into his hand.

"You did well, Watson."

"You did better..." Watson gasped, careening towards closure. "I would've...wrecked the bloody...oh god..."

"Shush. No talking. You've got work to do," Sholto said, quiet, precise, and patient, and pulled back to look him squarely in the eye, even as he stroked. "Show me how you come, Watson."

There on the side of the road, in the middle of this harsh country, Watson found himself in brand new territory. Never before had he felt the entirety of someone's attention, someone who seemed to be so legitimately and unselfishly interested in understanding, in watching, in knowing how he fell over the edge...and that realisation was just the startling push Watson needed to excise an entire day's worth of frustration, anxiety and arousal, all at once. He didn't just come, he crashed, and at that exact moment of impact, Watson knew one real truth, and that was the fact that - goddammit - he would follow Major James Sholto not just through to the end of the desert, but as far as the man would possibly allow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, hello again!
> 
> After the sad demise of the laptop, I am finding happiness with my iPad and Zagg keyboard, but I'm definitely in the process of working out the (pardon the pun) kinks.
> 
> As for Watson and Sholto, finally, FINALLY, the boys get a little relief on the road, but they're just starting their journey home, so who knows what they'll get up to on the way back!
> 
>  
> 
>  **END NOTES:**  
>  \- Who refers to a downed zipper as "having a shilling on the counter? According to this site, [old Brits do](http://ask.metafilter.com/117782/Close-your-barn-door)!
> 
> \- Edwards' comment about stirring up the campaign with a gay reveal was inspired by all those rumors about Ron Reagan (the President's son) back in the day. Turns out, [Ron's not gay](https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/books/with-controversial-memoir-ron-reagan-still-deviating-from-family-mold/2011/01/23/ABiebMR_story.html), but for a long time, everyone thought he was.
> 
> \- Somehow, I don't think Eggsy would mind that I made an indirect reference to [his line](https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fimg1.etsystatic.com%2F062%2F1%2F7766029%2Fil_570xN.799869651_bzi7.jpg&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.etsy.com%2Flisting%2F240055906%2Fposh-girls-love-a-bit-of-rough-quote&docid=H7EHvsJ1wwsYcM&tbnid=dtV6JZ7VaLP7lM%3A&w=570&h=428&hl=en-us&client=safari&bih=671&biw=704&ved=0ahUKEwiXnpmyrbrPAhVCdD4KHQ6TATkQMwhGKAAwAA&iact=mrc&uact=8%0A).
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks again for your patience during Laptopgate 2016, and thanks for sticking with it! Thanks too to those of y'all who are generous with your kudos and comments, I lurve you guys! ;-p
> 
> Next update is **Sunday, October 16th** \-- see you then!  
>  <3  
> vex.


	12. On the Road: Mir Bacha Kot to Kabul (62 km)

  
They went positively boneless, the both of them, immediately after. The haze of the late afternoon falling around them, squinting in the slowly lowering sun, all the tension well and truly spent after this longest of days...and it wasn't over yet. Not that Watson was complaining. More time on the drive back meant more time alone with Sholto. After all, who knew if this thing would even have legs when they got back to Bastion. For all he knew, Sholto would disappear into the ether of the upper ranks and Watson would be left behind. Yes, Watson was an officer, and yes, he was a doctor, but that didn't change the fact that within the military hierarchy, Sholto was still slumming. This was no secret, it was clearly something they were both well aware of - it was why they'd both responded so well to Watson's earlier scenario, the unspoken truth finally spoken.

They'd cleaned up using water from their canteens - and after all the water concerns during the drive up, it felt positively decadent to use it for anything other than drinking or pouring into a radiator. Once sorted, they settled back into their seats, relaxing into an easy quiet that surprised Watson. Knowing what he'd learned of Sholto thus far, he'd expected Sholto to show massive "morning after" (minutes after?) awkwardness, perhaps even full-on regret - but in the wake of it all, he actually seemed more easy-going.

_Amazing what an orgasm can do..._

Of course, they still had to keep moving. The choice to try and do this trip all in one go was, frankly, insane, but the hardest part was over. Edwards was delivered to his base, safe and sound, and now all that was left for Sholto and Watson to do was to get themselves home in the same condition, and all that stood in their way were 650-some-odd kilometers of the Highway to Hell.

The familiar road stretched out in front of them, its far reaches dissolving into a heat shimmer, even this late in the day. Watson hadn't understood until he came to Afghanistan that the old stories about mirages were really just about heat haze, the kind you could see on any proper road in London at the height of summer. In the movies, people who saw mirages were always shown seeing an oasis, but in real life, all the poor fuckers were actually seeing was just the shiny blue of the sky reflected in a heat shimmer, always remaining just out of reach.

Watson looked at Sholto and again, tried not to see the metaphor.

Happily, Sholto was oblivious to Watson's train of thought, and busied himself with the buttons on the ambulance's comm device. "Music?" Sholto asked, cheerily. "Or football might be on BFBS 2?"

"You need an app for that, I think," Watson said, distracted by a passing car. "The medics are always bitching about it, but no one ever gets around to upgrading the comms, much less downloading extras."

"Well, now someone has," Sholto said, proudly. "The boys in the motor pool set us up. Upgraded the comm and added the BFBS app while they were there."

"How did the Yanks access the British upgrade?"

"Clever hacks, aren't they?" Sholto beamed. "Amazing the perks one can buy with enough cigarettes, even in today's army."

Watson eyed Sholto, curiously. "You bribed them into an upgrade?"

"I paid them for going the extra mile, yes," Sholto admitted. "There’s no crime in gathering what small comforts we can find for the drive back, is there?"

There was no crime in it, not exactly, and while this kind of thinking was definitely a perk of the privileged, it wasn't as if Watson was above bartering on base. He'd personally bribed his way into Edwards' mission, after all, and he couldn't say he'd never accepted a gift from someone in exchange for fitting a minor procedure into a jammed surgery schedule. So the motor pool got some free cigarettes in exchange for some work on the comms, so what?

He considered that for a moment. The "so what" was the fact that this breach of conduct had been done at the request of Major Sholto -- responsible, law-abiding, fact-checking Sholto, he of the spotless record, born of a tradition mired in maturity, ethics and accountability. Frankly, that left Watson utterly gobsmacked. It was true, Watson admitted, that considering the events of the last half-hour alone, the Major was already standing somewhat wobbly on that Sholto family pedestal. But his sexuality was not a choice --unlike his choice to bribe another country's soldiers into hacking a secure military server for the sole purpose of his listening pleasure.

 _Their_ listening pleasure, Watson corrected himself, and conceded that if he were being entirely honest with himself, listening to music, news, and having some connection to the outside world would make the journey more pleasant. And after all, the upgrade had already happened, the breach had already been made. Ignoring the fact that they now had entertainment in the BFA wouldn't make up for Sholto's ethical misstep, now would it?

"Music," Watson said, definitively, and Sholto clicked the option to "BFBS Afghanistan," broadcasting from Bastion, and Dusty Miller's voice filled the cab, followed by strains of "Sweet Child of Mine" in the background. Watson smiled appreciatively, and tried not to wonder what other surprises this man might have in store for him.

The playlist for British Forces Broadcasting Services was eclectic, having to be all things to all people, from 18-year-old squaddies to 55-year-old officers ready to retire. It was voted on by soldiers, and so at any given time, you could hear anything from 70's classics to modern EDM, and everything in between. Kylie Minogue was a common denominator, as were military-friendly cuts like "All Along the Watchtower," "Firestarter" and "Boom! Shake the Room" - and while Watson wasn't fond of everything that came out of the speakers, he could appreciate the humor. Besides, Watson could and would dance to anything, given enough alcohol and a willing partner.

Sholto, however, proved to be the real stunner here: foot tapping, which led to steering wheel drumming, followed by subtle swaying in his seat -- and who would've thought Major Sholto would know all the words to "Bad Romance"?

Watson was beyond amused. "I never imagined you a music lover."

"You never imagined me, period." Sholto said, utterly unabashed - and wasn't that novel? "You didn't know me."

"Clearly," Watson nodded, understanding more and more how very much that was changing...

 

 

 

* * *

 

It wasn't until they were skirting along the northern-most edge of Kabul that the mood in the driver's cab shifted, and it was into a mood even the radio couldn't help. As they'd approached the city, they encountered more and more traffic, first random trucks on their way to market, then the occasional tractor trailer, and finally, rushes of civilian traffic, ushering them along the far edges of Kabul. The increase in traffic was initially challenging for Sholto, after such long stretches of deserted or near-deserted highway driving, but it was certainly not unmanageable.

For Watson, however, was a different story. The increase in traffic had made him more alert and more aware of his surroundings. Every vehicle that passed them held potential danger - which, considering the fact that they were still in a very active war zone, and currently driving on that zone's most dangerous highway, was hardly a stretch. As a soldier, increasing his vigilance was just part of his job, but the fact that he paired that vigilance with moving his weapon, shifting its position in the passenger's seat wheel well, was a matter of concern to Sholto, who watched Watson out of the corner of his eye.

"Steady, Captain," Sholto warned, and turned down the radio.

"I am steady," Watson said, somewhat crossly. 'I'm just, you know, staying alert."

"We'll be away from the city soon," Sholto said, firmly, "Without incident, do you copy?"

"Yeah, copy," he said, raising his hands in the air and resting them, crossed, across his chest. "You know, my hands were far away from the trigger. God forbid I act like a soldier."

Sholto sighed. "We talked about this before. A good soldier knows when to stand down, Watson."

"I never actually took up arms, did I?" Watson, asked, annoyed. As the progeny of such a prominent military family, Sholto seemed stubbornly resistant to actual soldiering. This was the second time he'd criticized his attempts at remaining watchful, and while it may have been the right call the first time, who knew if it was the right call now? "I'm just saying, no harm in being cautious."

"Cautious is fine. You don't need your weapon for cautious." Sholto kept his eyes on the road ahead, on the growing traffic around them. "Look, I get it. You've...been in some tight situations."

_Right. His file._

Sholto continued. "I mean, the Siege of Sangin, for god's sake."

_Fucking “Sangingrad”._

Watson flexed his jaw, automatically thinking about the chaos of the District Centre, dodging fire, applying pressure to wounds that would never heal, the shouts of soldiers in English and Pashto, shielding injured bodies with his own...

_No. Stronger than that._

He lifted his chin. "I know this is not Sangin, Major, alright? I'm just keeping an eye out. Save your armchair psychology."

Sholto shook his head. "No one needs a trick-cyclist to understand the desire for...precaution, particularly in crowds, especially not someone who spent six days stuck in the bloody Siege of Sangin."

"I’m fine, Major. Seriously."

"Watson, I'm not judging you, it's just that if--"

"Christ, can you let it go?"

"It was your first mission, there’s no shame--"

"Enough!" Watson shouted. "Stop fucking coddling me! I’m not an invalid and I don’t have PTSD. My hands aren’t near my firearm. We are done talking about this, so if you would please bloody drive!" His hands were shaking, he was so angry - which, frankly, didn’t help his cause. "Can you please just drive?"

Sholto went silent, and stared at the road ahead. Watson reached over and turned up the volume on the radio, because the music suited his mood to a tee, even if it was that one crap Clash song that everybody knows. An uneasy quiet grew between them, as the radio continued to play.

Watson seethed over Sholto's implication, that somehow Sangin had damaged him, made him a less rational soldier, because that's what he was implying, wasn't it? When the truth was that Sangin made him a better soldier, a more capable one, it fucking forged him in gunfire, and if Sholto couldn't understand that, well, legacy or no, pedestal or no...it made him wonder. How could such a living, breathing Action Man not understand this?

It immediately sent Watson down a spiral, because, when he really started thinking about it, this whole thing was just something else to add to the list of things that nagged at him about Sholto, just another question, another red flag with the potential to tarnish that spotless record, like kissing a subordinate and saying it was strictly motivational, or lying, so effortlessly, in the linen closet. Not to mention the whole bloody cryptic truckload of cardboard boxes, the crushed one he could never open in peace, that familiar teal label, and it was suddenly layer upon layer upon layer upon--

"What dates were you confirming?"

After so many minutes of brooding silence, Watson wasn’t surprised that Sholto seemed perplexed by the question. "I'm...sorry?"

"You told Captain Miller this afternoon that you were 'confirming dates.' It's what made her believe the lie. What dates were you confirming?"

Sholto's expression faltered, ever-so-slightly, but he managed to keep his eyes firmly on the road ahead and his tone light, even letting loose a small laugh. "Have you been worrying about this since Bagram? Watson, it was just part of the ruse."

"That doesn't even make sense. Why would she be more prone to believe a lie with another lie piled on top?" Watson shook his head, sharply. "No, it only makes sense if you buried the lie under an actual truth."

"Sounds like you might know more about lying than I do," Sholto said, pointedly.

"Projection, nice," Watson gritted, "More psychology.”

“Can you cut it with the--”

Sholto’s words drifted off, his attention suddenly drifting to something ahead in the distance.

“Cut what, Major?” Watson asked, acidly, and turned his head to find him...not listening at all. “Sholto?”

“Can’t be,” he murmured, his eyes darting, tracking, his body tense, leaning forward, and then suddenly Sholto pulled an unexpected hard left on the steering wheel, prompting a flurry of car horns, angry shouts and squealing brakes.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

"Jesus, Sholto, are you trying to kill us?" Watson panted, bracing himself against the sides of the ambulance, now pointed away from the highway, going into the city. "What in the bloody hell?"

Sholto looked like he'd seen a ghost -- and he might have. "Up ahead," he said, breathless.

"What's up ahead?"

"That!" Sholto pointed three cars ahead. "Red Toyota Pickup."

Watson looked ahead to the red tailgate, and rolled his eyes. Now who was overreacting? "Oh, come on, now, you're not seriously thinking..."

"Red. Toyota. Pickup!" Sholto said, emphatically.

"So?" Watson snapped. "Every other car in Afghanistan is a Toyota, and there are loads of pickups."

"Certainly," Sholto snapped back, and swerved the car in and out of the lane, jockeying around a taxi and then a white minivan. He glanced at Watson. "But how many red Toyota pickups have red beaded pendants hanging from the rear view mirror?"

That stopped Watson, if only for a moment. “Major: we watched that car burn,” he said, trying to stay calm. “I threw the grenade that blew it into a million pieces. That’s not the car.”

“Yeah, and?” Sholto said, and grinned, shouting at the pickup. “He’s getting off - oh, I’ve got you, you bastard!”

Watson held onto the door handle for dear life as Sholto took another corner, rough, taking them into the city proper. People and cars swarmed around them, and it wasn’t long before they were mired in the stop-start of traffic - but so was the pickup. Kabul’s roads were mainly pitted dirt, and lined with water hazards that often served as open sewers or trash pits. They had no streetlights, no stop signs, and no discernible traffic laws. Beggars would sometimes simply sit down in the middle of the road, and even when people stayed out of the street, there were potholes to avoid, some big enough to be buried in. Traffic police were stationed at some intersections, fruitlessly waving red flashing lights, but for the most part, they were ignored. In Kabul, the only rule of the road that mattered was the Law of Gross Tonnage: the biggest vehicle always wins -- and since most of the cars on the road were Corollas, the BFA won the right of way most of the time.

Watson considered Sholto’s response: “So this is not our car?”

“It’s not our car,” Sholto said, eyes locked on the pickup. “A million pieces, as you said. No, this is even better.”

“How is this better?” Pedestrians pressed against the car, crossing the street.

“Well, for starters,” Sholto smirked. “It makes us this much closer to finding out who we bombed.”

“Gotta say, not a big selling point right now.”

“We find out who their friends were, we can find more IEDs, save lives.”

“So this isn’t just you, starting shit?” Watson let out an uncomfortable laugh.

“Shit, as you say, has not been started -- whoa!” Sholto said, narrowly avoiding hitting a food cart. “No,” he said, a look of mock-innocence on his face. “We’re just taking a leisurely drive.”

Up ahead, the pickup increased its speed, and began making erratic turns. They’d been made - not that a big, shot-up British BFA was all that difficult to spot in the middle of an Afghan city - but the truck was on the move. Sholto stuck with it, delivering the most polite trash-talk that Watson had ever heard. “Oh, yes, that’s the way. How kind of you to finally notice us...”

Both cars made a break for it onto the side streets.

“This is madness,” said Watson, “We don’t even know these streets. Do you know these streets?”

“No!” Sholto laughed, ridiculously, and in this one moment, Watson understood exactly what Edwards saw in their pairing. Sholto had never seemed so alive - and Watson smiled to himself, because he knew that look, intimately: it was the same one plastered on his face whenever he found himself in harm’s way.

“Oh, you daft cock,” Watson said, and suddenly he was laughing with him, because the whole situation was more than a bit mental. “Alright then,” he said, finding his composure and unapologetically reaching for his firearm. For once, Sholto didn’t object.

“Catch up and let’s go introduce ourselves.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to this fic, I will never look at a red Toyota pickup the same way ever again! ;-p
> 
>  
> 
> **END NOTES:**
> 
> \- [The mechanics of a mirage...]()
> 
> \- BFBS=British Forces Broadcasting Services. See how much I swiped from [this article](https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2011/sep/29/bfbs-radio-camp-bastion-afghanistan)!
> 
> \- [Sholto knows all the lyrics to “Bad Romance”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KDPmPYWe6s8). _Author’s confession: technically, the song didn’t come out until a year after this fic takes place, but dude, I couldn’t resist stretching the truth to give Alistair Petrie a solo!_
> 
> \- The 2006-2007 Siege of Sangin, (not to be confused with the 2011 Battle of Sangin) was a real thing. I'm placing Watson there on Day One.
> 
> \- [Kabul traffic](http://cdn.thefiscaltimes.com/sites/default/files/12032015_Kabul_Afghanistan.jpg) is [sincerely terrifying](https://www.wired.com/2010/09/wired-coms-guide-to-driving-in-kabul/), and that doesn't even include the war going on around them! [Much respect to anyone who has to deal with this commute!](http://abcnews.go.com/International/video/kabul-commute-no-traffic-lights-18282946)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks, as always, to any and all who read this! Next chapter will post on **Sunday, October 30th** , so stay tuned! Lots more to come!  
> <3  
> vex.


	13. On the Road: Kabul to the mountains between Jalriz and Paghman (103 km)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover Notes are used in this chapter - hover over non-English words to see English translations/explanations. It's pretty cool!
> 
> (FYI: This does not work on mobile. Boo.)

  
They followed the pickup through narrow city streets that barely counted as streets, down alleyways, both cars slamming on brakes now and again to avoid pedestrians crossing the road. Watson kept his gun close, but did not raise it. It was still a game of chase, not war, not yet.  
  
"Think they're enjoying this as much as we are?" Watson grinned, just as the BFA hit a particularly large rut in the road.  
  
"This is serious, Watson," Sholto said sternly, cutting a glance sideways before breaking into a laugh. "Of course they are."

As Sholto drove, Watson temporarily set aside his amusement with this new side of Sholto to take in as much intel about the truck and its inhabitants as possible, in the hopes he'd find evidence beyond the beaded pendant. There were two men in the cab, both bearded and wearing " _shalwar kameez_ ”. The driver wore a grey turban, the passenger was bare-headed. Watson kept an eye, particularly, on the passenger, anticipating the appearance of a firearm. None came.  
  
The truck itself seemed to be in decent shape, despite being an older model. It was one of an increasingly common variety of used vehicles that made their way into Afghanistan by way of the United States, a fact that became apparent with this particular vehicle when its distinctly western bumper sticker came into view: _"My kid's an honor student at Thomas Jefferson Elementary!"_ Watson wondered what that kid's parents would think about the current ownership of the family car. More to the point, he wondered why the Taliban would leave such a clear sign of the western devils on their vehicle. If they were, in fact, Taliban, wouldn't they have immediately removed it? Or would they have intentionally left it as a symbol that even the most innocuous American thing could be used to further the Taliban cause? The truck bed gave even fewer clues. It was empty, and the back gate was down - revealing deeply grooved scratches across the inner part of the gate, scratches that could have come from hauling a truckload of shovels and bombs on a regular basis, though they could've just as easily have come from hauling loads of harmless farm equipment. Sum total of Watson's observations was...nothing. Nothing that could definitively confirm the suspicion brought on by the presence of that pendant.  
  
Sholto, in the meantime, was busy shifting gears. Kabul was built on the flat land at the base of a mountain ridge, and as it had grown, the city had simply extended up the mountainside, in some places all the way up to the top of the small mountain range. What that meant was that as the red pickup fled west towards the farthest reaches of Kabul, the streets became increasingly steeper and the ambulance struggled to keep up.  
  
"Clever, isn't he?" Sholto gritted, and stomped on the accelerator as the pickup pulled farther ahead. "Goddamnit, I should never have followed him up a mountain."  
  
"They knew this would happen," Watson said, suddenly understanding why weapons had never been drawn.  
  
But Sholto wasn't giving up yet, shifting into lower gear, staying on their tail. They rounded another corner, around a dusty block of walled homes, and then another, and another still, completing a series of ess-curves, a sequence of rapid-fire, disorienting turns that forced Sholto and Watson both to lose sight of the truck, again and again and again. Each time they'd turn the corner, the pickup would be farther ahead, until finally it crossed a narrow pass that led to a perfect straightaway. Sholto floored it, knowing that they could pick up some speed on the straightaway, maybe make up some time if they played it right, and they could have...if it weren't for that herd of sheep that were shepherded across the narrow pass immediately after the pickup crossed.  
  
Sholto slammed on the brakes and let loose with a string of obscenities that Watson hadn't heard him say since the burn - but this time, Watson joined in. He slapped the dashboard in anger, while the dozens of sheep meandered in and around the BFA, filling the pass and blocking their way, wholly unperturbed. Their shepherd ignored both Sholto and Watson's wild gesturing and shouts in Pashto " _Tersha!_ " and " _Rakhasha!_ " and the sheep remained. With boulders crowding each side of the pass, and sheep all around, there was no way the BFA could get through. Ahead on the road, the pickup spun around, paused and sounded its horn. Through the woolly mob that stood between the two vehicles, Sholto and Watson watched helplessly as the men in the pickup gleefully shot them two-finger salutes before driving away.  
  
Sholto groaned, "Bloody hell..."

Watson wondered, "How'd they even know we're British?"

And the sheep? They declined comment altogether.  


 

 

 

* * *

 

It took the livestock a good five minutes to clear, even with the shepherd's eventual cooperation, but by then, they’d both known the trail of the red pickup would be cold. Sholto and Watson crossed the pass anyway, and drove in the direction the pickup had gone, hoping that at the next intersection, the pickup might've inadvertently left behind some clue as to its direction.  
  
That intersection, a rocky crossing of two deserted roads, came sooner rather than later. Sholto and Watson got out of the ambulance to look down each road, for any sign, tire tracks, anything, but the terrain gave nothing away.  
  
"Not a single indication. Damn." Sholto spat, as both he and Watson stood in the middle of the intersection, looking from one road to the other.  
  
"You really think they were connected to our red pickup?"  
  
Sholto frowned and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pound coin. He held it up for Watson to see before flipping it into the air and catching it in his right palm, left hand covering the result. He lifted his hand and sighed. "Coin says no."  
  
Watson was speechless. They'd just chased a car across Kabul on this man's hunch, risking life, limb, military property and potential sheep massacre, and Sholto just shrugged it off, like it was no big deal.  
  
_Who the fuck was this guy?_  
  
"Still," Sholto continued, as he shoved the coin back into his pocket with a mischievous smile on his face, "it was a hell of a ride, wasn't it?"  
  
Watson couldn't deny it, adrenaline still coursing through his blood. "That it was," Watson said, roused by the look Sholto was giving him. "But, ah, where the hell are we, exactly?"  
  
Sholto furrowed his brows. “Haven’t the foggiest,” he admitted, and draped an arm over Watson's shoulder. "Do you have any idea?"  
  
_His arm._  
  
Watson swallowed, and tried to concentrate. It was just the man’s arm, for fuck’s sake - he’d had his cock in his mouth not that long ago, why was he freaking out about his arm around his neck?

“Ah, other than the fact that that’s Kabul,” Watson said, nodding to the city down the mountain, “I’m lost.”  
  
Sholto smiled and drew him in closer. “Well, bloody good thing the comm’s updated, right?” He walked them back to the ambulance together, that arm still draped, Sholto’s tone and gesture lending a sort of party atmosphere to the situation.  
  
_Like walking into a club…_  
  
This feeling was only made more clear when they split to get into the driver's cab. As they parted ways, Sholto gave Watson an unapologetic slap on the ass, which hurt like hell on his already-punished cheek. Watson was less stunned by the slap than by the fact that this spontaneous gesture had come from such a deliberate man. He’d thought that Sholto's sudden easy-going attitude was the result of afterglow, but there certainly seemed to be more to it than that.  
  
_Clearly, the man was drunk, right?_  
  
"What's with you?" Watson asked as Sholto fiddled with the comm, accessing the GPS.  
  
"Hmm?" He asked, jolted from his own thoughts, and he smiled so brilliantly that Watson literally couldn't think clearly for a moment. He really was an Action Man, in the best sense, tall, blond and built, those clear blue eyes, an old-school matinee idol, he was David McCallum, he was Robert Redford, and this devil-may-care thing he suddenly had going on? Just the cherry on top.  
  
_Shut the fuck up. Ask him the question._  
  
"Have you been drinking?"  
  
“No,” Sholto answered, and then leaned in, confidentially. "Why? Do you think I should?"  
  
"No, of course not, I...nevermind." Watson said, flustered by the man's rakish response. He reached for the paper map in the glove box. "So, um...where are we?"  
  
"Best I can figure, we are in the actual middle of nowhere," he said, zooming out on the map. "Here's the highway, here's Kabul, here's where we are, right here."  
  
"Well, shit," he said, and compared the comm map to the paper map. "So do we…go back the way we came? Cross back through Kabul to the other side? Or--" Watson traced his finger along a central path, "do we cut down this way, join the Kabul-Behsud Highway and then--"  
  
"Reconnect with Highway One just north of Maidan Shahr?" Sholto said, following on the paper map and matching it up with the path suggested by the comm. "Yeah, that's good, maybe shave off a bit of time that way, too, avoid the Kabul traffic."  
  
"Still pretty mountainous, think the ambulance can take it?"  
  
"It's made it this far, hasn't it? Besides," Sholto paused, and leaned in to kiss him, "easier to fall downhill than it is to climb up it, right?"  
  
The kiss, like the slap before it, caught him off guard.  
  
_Why now? Why here?_  
  
Watson took inventory:  
  
Physical contact without self-censorship;  
Impulsivity;  
A cavalier attitude to risk;  
Decadent shows of affection...  
  
...and suddenly, he understood.  
  
_It was because they were alone._  
  
For the first time, he and Sholto were really and truly alone. The man's sudden laid-back nature wasn't because of the sex, wasn't the after-effects of an adrenaline rush, and he was pretty sure it wasn't due to alcohol. It was simply Sholto, a Sholto freed from the burden of looking over his shoulder. His smile was easier, his laugh more immediate, even his posture was more relaxed (although even at his most at-ease, Sholto's posture was still ridiculously on-point). The more Watson thought about it, the more sense it made: because whether it was an issue of being closeted or something more, Sholto seemed to always be changing, depending where he was and who he was with. The man Watson met at the motor pool in Bastion, for example, was a different man than the one at the well, or at Bagram, or flipping a coin at a crossroads just outside of Kabul.  
  
"Everything alright?" Sholto asked.  
  
"Oh, yeah," Watson said, watching him with new interest. "Road doesn't seem so rough here."  
  
"Getting smoother," Sholto agreed, and turned up the radio.  
  
Outside the sky was all blues and pinks and gold, a touch of purple at the edges, fair warning that night was coming. Once they'd made it down the mountain, and put a fair number of miles between them and the mountainside, Sholto pulled the ambulance over into a small, sheltered clearing. They were still out in the country,far enough away from the main road that it was still quiet, quiet enough to hear the wildlife - in this case, a small, squirrel-like mountain weasel, chittering loudly at their arrival.  
  
"Could be worse," Watson laughed. "Don't they have bears up here?"  
  
"Yes - Asiatic Black bears - but I'm pretty sure we're not far enough north for that to be a problem."  
  
“So, dinner?” Watson asked. “Since we didn’t get to at the base?”  
  
“And whose fault was that?”

“Oh, I think it best not to assign fault, don’t you?”  
  
“Says the man whose fault it was.”  
  
“Oh, come on, haven’t I been punished enough?” Watson asked, his voice playful as he took two steps forward, reaching out to grip the front of Sholto’s shirt. He pulled him to him, fingers curling into the cotton.  
  
Sholto gave him a long look. “Tell you what: you pick out the MREs, I’ll make sure we get the best seat in the house.”  
  
_Bloody charming…_  
  
They set up a picnic of sorts, beside a small stream, what Watson presumed to be one of a million tiny offshoots of the Kabul River. Sholto had swiped a shock blanket from the back of the ambulance and laid it out over the ground, between two flat rocks.

Meanwhile, unsure of Sholto’s tastes, Watson had chosen two MRE boxes and combined their contents, so they could share and trade – mealtimes in the field were always about trading this granola bar for that biscuit, and having everything in one place made it easier.

They came together, between the rocks, and after the day they’d had, after so many hours on the road, it felt like they could finally breathe. Stretching out on the grass, it was positively pleasant. The sun was setting as they heated their meals with the flameless ration heaters that came with their MREs, and Sholto surprised him with one final touch – a candle, apparently smuggled out of Bagram. They emptied out a small can of almonds and dripped wax in the bottom, making it an impromptu candlestick. Considering the the time of day, the candle did serve a practical purpose, but Watson couldn’t help calling Sholto out on its more typical connotation.  
  
“You are a romantic,” Watson said, flicking his finger in and out of the candle flame.  
  
Sholto smiled, and finished off the last of his chicken arrabbiata. “We did agree to call it a date, didn’t we? The missed dinner at Bagram?”  
  
“Hmm, this is better, though.” Watson stretched out fully on his back, “All we’re missing is a bottle of wine.”  
  
“In lieu of wine,” Sholto said, and reached into his back pocket, presenting Watson with a worn silver flask. “Will whiskey do?”  
  
Watson sat up, surprised, and accepted the flask. He unscrewed the cap, sniffed, grunted, and took a pull. “Wow, that’s...not the cheap stuff, is it?”

Sholto bit his lip and looked down, “Couldn’t grow up in my house without developing an appreciation for good whiskey.”

Watson felt the burn reach all the way down to his belly. “So…you were drinking earlier?”  
  
“No, I’ve not cracked it this trip,” Sholto said, with a serious look. “There was too much at stake, with the Yank.”

Watson bought it, and to be fair, if Sholto had been drinking on the drive up, Watson would have been the first to know -- he would have fucking smelled it, tasted it, but he hadn't. “But you do drink?”

Sholto gave a tight smile. “Um, yes. Whiskey can be useful. And, you know, quite delicious when the time’s right.”  
  
“You’re singing quite a different tune,” Watson took another pull and held it out to Sholto. “You called me out for drinking this morning.”  
  
Sholto took the flask and took a drink, gesturing with it. “You were still drunk this morning.”  
  
Watson couldn’t deny it, but he didn’t need to be reminded of it. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted, and looked away.

Sholto pressed, gently. “Problem, in that area?”  
  
“That’s the question,” Watson said, reluctantly meeting his gaze. “Where’s the line, right? My sister...can’t keep a job, a relationship, clearly it’s a problem for her. But me?” He reached over and took the flask from Sholto’s hand, helping himself to another mouthful. “I just like it. As you said, it’s delicious and sometimes useful. Particularly here. Not all that uncommon, I think.”  
  
“No, you’re right. Grand tradition of substance use in the military.” Sholto said, and took a second swig. “But you’ll...let me know if it gets out of hand, yes?”  
  
“It won’t. I’m a doctor.”  
  
“Even so.”  
  
Sholto stretched out beside him, and they were quiet for a while, staring up at the sky, watching the stars emerge from the purple dusk. The stars were bigger in the sky than they were at home - Afghanistan’s lack of relative light pollution and air pollution put them center stage, and it was such a startling contrast to the sky most westerners were used to that you could always tell a new recruit by the way they stared, awestruck, at the stars. Considering Sholto and Watson’s contemplation of the sky in that moment, clearly it wasn’t just squaddies that fell under its spell.

Sholto broke the silence, murmuring, “Okay. You were honest with me, I should be honest with you.”  
  
“About the drinking?”  
  
“No,” Sholto said, firmly. "I just thought you should know that…well, that you were right, before."  
  
"Right? About what?"  
  
"About burying the lie under the truth."  
  
That got Watson's attention. He rolled over onto his side, to face Sholto. "You mean the question you got into a car chase to avoid answering?"  
  
Sholto lifted his chin. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response."  
  
"I didn't expect one."  
  
"Well then I shan't disappoint." Sholto's fingers played along the edge of the blanket. "It's to do with the boxes. I assume you sorted that out on your own?"  
  
"Are you saying that Captain Miller knew about the boxes?"  
  
"I'm saying....well, yes," Sholto answered, carefully. "Captain Miller and I came to an agreement the last time I was at Bagram."  
  
"Captain Miller. So you didn't just meet her today?" Watson frowned, processing things slowly. "That stilted introduction of yours was just - what? For me, then?"  
  
Sholto sat up, his back a bit straighter, and Watson immediately recognized it as a defensive reflex, drifting back into the public Sholto. "It was a necessary deception to protect her involvement."  
  
"Involvement in what, precisely?" Watson sat up. The conversation suddenly felt like the most delicate surgery, with him wanting to get at the facts without spooking his senior officer.  
  
"It's a...similar situation to Sandhurst," Sholto said. "And yes, that's the primary reason I hijacked your specific transport. It wasn't the only reason, of course."  
  
"And why are you telling me this now?"  
  
"It's against my best instincts." Sholto paused, working his jaw. "But you seem to...bring about certain self-destructive tendencies in me."  
  
"So you're blaming me?"  
  
"No, I'm crediting you."  
  
Watson exhaled, slowly. It wasn't the first time it had been implied that he was a bad influence, but it was the first time that bad influence was sold as a positive.  
  
"I'm also trusting you. It's proof of trust."  
  
The pieces began putting themselves together quickly after that. "Similar to Sandhurst" meant it was some sort of scam, Miller's involvement made it medical, and Miller's own words about Bagram's supplies filled in the blanks. All that was left was understanding what was serving as the grease beneath the wheels.  
  
"You sold medical supplies to Bagram?" Watson said, trying to keep a cap on his slowly building anger. "I knew I'd seen that teal logo, it's on every autoclave in the lab. What else did you sell out to the Yanks?"  
  
"I didn't sell out, I traded _up_."  
  
"Traded in on government property, more like it," Watson said, arms hugging close around him. This wasn't okay. "Why'd you do it? Certainly you’re not in need of money, even with alimony and tuition to a poncey school for the lads."  
  
"Everyone needs money," Sholto dismissed with a gesture. "That's not what this is about."  
  
Watson's eyes narrowed. "What's your payoff, then?" He knew there was something fishy going on, but he hadn’t thought it would so directly impact his work, patients, for god’s sake, the hospital…  
  
"It's not my payoff, Watson. It's yours."  
  
Watson groaned, annoyed. “What’s mine?  
  
Sholto locked eyes with him and took a deep breath. “A Siemens 1.5T Magnetom Symphony system with IPA coil technology, featuring an ultra-short, 60cm core, whatever that means.”  
  
For a moment, Watson just looked at him, his mouth opening and closing, with nothing coming out.  
  
Sholto rushed to fill the quiet. “I’m assured it’s still quite a viable model, even though it’s two years old.”  
  
“You.” Watson eventually found his words and whispered. “You got us an MRI?”  
  
Sholto cautiously nodded.  
  
Watson took him by the shoulders. “You, all by yourself, you traded whatever was in those boxes for an actual, working MRI machine?”  
  
“Well, you did requisition one your first week here, didn’t you?” Sholto rushed to add, “And I should say, I drove a bit of a hard bargain—“  
  
“Shut up,” Watson didn’t let him finish, kissing him squarely and deeply on the mouth. “Come with me,” he said, taking him by the hand and pulling him to his feet, continuing to kiss him.  
  
“So the model’s alright?” Sholto said, barely managing to gets the words out between kisses.  
  
“Alright?” Watson pulled his head back to look at this remarkable man, holding his face in his hands. “The model’s more than alright. The model’s bloody amazing, and you’re the single most brilliant man I’ve ever met in my life. And I want to hear every detail of your fantastic trade, but first,” he said, “I want to thank you.”  
  
Sholto smiled. “You, don’t have to thank me.”  
  
“Yeah, I do,” Watson said, and pressed up hard against him. “Lucky for us, not 30 feet away, there’s a quiet, private room that’s perfect for expressing my gratitude.”  
  
“You don’t mean…?”  
  
Watson nodded at the BFA. “It’s basically a bloody caravan, Posh, with beds and everything…”  
  
Sholto looked up at the ambulance, and shot a glance back at Watson. “Well, it would be a shame to let it go to waste...”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it would be a waste, wouldn't it?
> 
>  
> 
> **END NOTES**
> 
> \- [Follower Tease](https://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/post/152506496362/follower-tease-chapter-13-of-war-is-hell-will) (I'm sure it left a few people scratching their heads!)
> 
> \- Kabul does, in fact, [stretch up the side of a small mountain ](http://afghanistanonmymind.blogspot.com/2013/01/kabul-aerial-views-of-city.html); 
> 
> \- A gesture that [divides the Brits and the Yanks](https://stronglang.wordpress.com/2015/10/08/up-yours-the-gesture-that-divides-america-and-the-uk/); 
> 
> \- [Why the next car you wreck might end up in Afghanistan](http://jalopnik.com/why-the-next-car-you-wreck-might-end-up-in-afganistan-510529820);
> 
> \- Bears. Really? [Yep...](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wildlife_of_Afghanistan)
> 
> \- I spent a stupid amount of time trying to figure out [which MRE entree would be called out in this chapter](http://staffordantiquesmilitaria.co.uk/product/british-army-ration-packs). In the end, I decided on chicken arrabbiata, mostly because of Eddie Izzard's penne all'arrabbiata in his [Star Wars Canteen](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Bq03xebtbeU) bit;
> 
> \- Sholto rightly wins a million brownie points with Watson with [this gift](http://www.providianmedical.com/mri-equipment/siemens/siemens-magnetom-symphony-1-5t/) to Camp Bastion's hospital.
> 
>  
> 
> Careful readers may have noticed that the ubiquitous "?" has now been replaced with an end chapter, "20". As always, I reserve the right to adjust that slightly as the weeks go on, but only if necessary! 
> 
> Next time, naughtiness abounds, and will post two weeks from today, on **Sunday, November 13th**. 
> 
> Thanks so much for the comments, for the kudos and for supporting this fic with recs and kind words on Tumblr! Hearing from you makes my day! 
> 
> See you next time!  
> <3  
> vex.


	14. On the Road: The mountains between Jalriz and Paghman (103 km)

The ambulance was dark and warm - too warm, really - and it lent an illicit air to the proceedings. Major and Captain, hidden behind locked doors, and wasn't  _ that _ fitting? But regardless of their mutual public constraint, neither man lost any time baring themselves to one another, shedding clothes quickly, impatiently, modesty be damned. Modesty had no place in this man's military, anyway: the army had made that entirely clear, subjecting them to group barracks and open showers, all while working them both into the best physical condition of their lives.

_ It was almost as if the military had wanted this to happen... _

They grappled in the back of the BFA, moonlight bleeding in dimly around the upper stretcher racks, bright enough for them to see where pale skin met tanned. They were tense, touch-starved, with open mouths and grasping fingers, hips tilting until they were both panting...and they were just getting started. Every move of muscle was a new revelation, every shift of skin on skin a symphony fraught with longing. Watson gave up trying to control the desperate sounds coming out of his mouth the moment Sholto slid his hands along his spine, down to the small of his back, lingering, frustratingly, just above his cleft...

Foreplay for Watson was usually a fine-tuned mix of flirtation, self-deprecation, humor and a careful deployment of select vulgarities -- a formulated strategy, but one he wouldn't initiate this time. This time, all that Watson needed was to admire the man before him: the blue of his eye, the strength of his arm, the length of his well-muscled thigh and the perfectly angled curve of his cock, and to marvel at whatever chance or design led them to this perfect moment.

He wasn't alone in his admiration. Sholto leveled his gaze at the trail of fair hair down Watson's tight belly, his broad chest, and the inevitable play of the man's tongue along his lower lip. Watson caught him staring at the last and laughed awkwardly, embarrassed, to which Sholto responded by kissing him silly, laughing with him, making the habit something to appreciate, maybe even something to be rewarded. It was enough to make a man swoon.

_ Steady, Watson... _

Sholto's fingertips were still ghosting against his back, and Watson arched reflexively, an invitation. Sholto cupped Watson's slightly bruised arse and kneaded it, testing to note the precise point of pressure required for Watson's noises to move from pleasured to pained. It took a very hard, very deliberate pinch before Watson's whine hit the right register.

"Good boy," Sholto soothed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Hard boy," Watson corrected, his voice a murmur.

"In every sense of the word, yes," Sholto said smugly.

Standing together in that small space, their height difference felt more pronounced than ever: nine glorious inches of difference, a difference that matched Watson's mouth to Sholto's clavicle, his chest to the top of Sholto's belly, and so on, all the way down. Many men might've feel uncomfortable with that difference, but that wasn't the case with Watson. It didn't make him feel small as much as it made Sholto seem larger - larger than life even, like some colossus come to earth. Even during their first salute that morning, Watson had taken note of just how far he'd had to crane his neck to simply look the man in the face. To Watson, locking eyes with the man had felt like an impertinence, like a mere human daring to address a deity.

Watson bent his head and buried it in Sholto's chest, enjoying the sensation of hair against his cheek, against his lips, a novelty. Every man Watson had ever been with had shaved themselves within an inch of their lives, seal-slick from fore to aft. It was the style, the standard of the times -- but here, with Sholto, Watson couldn't deny that the traditional approach did have its appeal: the tease of the texture and the play of his smooth chest against Sholto's rough one, amazing. His nuzzling turned to kissing, biting and then to sucking the delicate flesh of Sholto's nipple, alternately flicking it with the tip of his tongue, just to listen to the man groan. The sound made Watson smirk, and he crooned his approval into Sholto's ear.

"You're easy, you know that, Posh?" Watson asked, and had just begun another steady move down Sholto’s chest when he was abruptly lifted off the floor. With one hand gripping his hair and the other catching his left thigh, Sholto slammed him solidly, back first, against the dividing wall. The sharp movement made the ambulance shudder, and the unexpected cool of the metal sent a delicious shiver against Watson's spine.

"Not as easy as you, Chav," Sholto teased, his turn to smirk. "Watch your legs," he said, and looked down, kicking a lever on the wall behind Watson, releasing the jumpseat. "Mind your head," he warned, and lowered Watson's feet to the seat. The ambulance wasn’t tall enough to allow Watson to stand upright on the jumpseat, so he was forced to bend slightly over, ducking his head awkwardly beneath the vents.

Sholto pointed to the black handholds that lined the ceiling. "Grab onto those for balance."

Watson did as he was told, steadying himself on top of the small vinyl seat as Sholto stepped back. For a moment, Watson wasn't clear what was behind this ungainly posture - until Sholto dropped to his knees.

_ Oh, God yes... _

"This okay?" Sholto asked, putting both hands on Watson's hips. "We could move to the stretcher, if you'd rather?"

"No, no, no, just...I'm good," Watson said, despite the ache that had already begun in his shoulders. The position felt an awful lot like a being in a restraint, his feet off the ground, arms outstretched, hanging onto the handles just to stay balanced and that realisation set him off even further, along with the fact that this pose allowed him an unparalleled, bird's-eye view of the action.

Sholto seemed to be enjoying a new view as well, his head directly level with Watson's seriously large cock -- because while he’d felt it, even stroked it numerous times over the course of the day, he'd not had the opportunity to actually see it up close until now.

For his part, Watson was eager to see how much of him the tall man might be able to take - but in truth, he wasn't altogether hopeful. Yes, Sholto was older, theoretically providing him with a longer sexual history and more time to perfect his cocksucking abilities, but considering how genuinely closeted Sholto was, Watson couldn’t help but feel doubtful regarding how much experience he might actually have.

Turns out, he needn't have worried. Sholto blithely took him into his mouth - not  _ all _ of him, certainly, but more than most - and sucked him with a degree of confidence that Watson rarely encountered. Sholto’s mouth proved to be thoroughly sinful, and skilled beyond simple capacity: there was actual technique at play, variations in the use of tongue and vacuum, practiced moves that Watson had not experienced before. He became increasingly more grateful for the balance provided by the overhead handholds.

"Shit..Sholto, how?" He groaned, knees actually buckling.

"You think your generation invented blowjobs?" Sholto grinned, and tightly stroked Watson’s shaft between strokes. "Lad, I was cottaging when you were still in nappies," he said, and without further explanation, dipped his head to take him in even deeper.

Watson’s mind spun, and he knew right then that that image would haunt him for days, weeks, hell, years even: a teenaged Sholto cruising public toilets like some proto-Joe-Orton and oh, god, was that a turn on. Spotless record? He must be made of Teflon…Watson gripped the handles tighter, and eased his hips forward, feeding Sholto more of his thick cock just to test the waters, to see how far he might go before backing off.

Except, that didn’t happen.

Instead, Sholto simply smiled around Watson's cock and gamely grabbed his hips, bringing him forward faster, burying him deeper into his throat. Watson marveled.

_ Three-quarters in now _ ,  _ and the bloke wasn't even gagging! _

As if that weren't enough, Sholto began showboating, swallowing against Watson's cock to the fullest degree his anatomy would permit - a degree that Watson had never expected to experience. Without meaning to, he felt himself clutch, recognizing the start of the ramp up, and he was so ready to go, so good, so goddamned--

"Not yet." Sholto huffed, and stood up, a string of saliva still connecting his mouth and Watson's cock.

Watson, dismayed, watched on. "Why'd you stop?"

"Because you were about to go off," Sholto wiped his mouth coarsely and nodded at Watson's leaking cock. "And if you think I'm going to pass up the chance to ride  _ that  _ before you do, well, you are very much mistaken."

Watson found himself at a loss for words. At his size, topping was rarely an option -- and even when it was, it had to be prefaced with much cajoling and negotiation. Even when agreements were made, partners often changed their minds, mid-fuck. Often, he felt it was more trouble than it was worth, so often, in fact, that in recent years, Watson had simply resigned himself to bottoming more often than not, just to avoid the hassle. Any sex was good sex, after all, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss that specific tightness, that unique clenching, that singular, mind-blowing confinement.

After all those years of rejection and disappointment, Watson now found himself mentally stammering, trying to find a reason why anyone, and more specifically Sholto, would be acting like his cock was suddenly the most popular pony in the carousel.

"Are-are you sure?" Watson asked, carefully.

Sholto winked. "It's big, but it's not that big, Watson."

If Watson hadn't been so shocked, he would've been insulted. And then he understood:

_ Bloody Major Sholto is a bloody size queen. And a public toilet tart as well, back in the day, if he's to be believed… _

It felt like a punchline. Watson stepped off the jump seat, bewildered, and scrubbed his face with his hand. At this point, after so many surprises and reversals throughout the day, he didn't know what to expect from the man at his feet, currently rummaging through his backpack. The more he learned about Sholto, the real man, the man behind the Action Man, the more difficult and convoluted his life seemed. 

Oblivious to Watson’s concerns, Sholto extracted a condom from a zipped pocket, and matter-of-factly passed it over his shoulder to Watson.

"Ta," he said, taking the small packet from his fingers. Condoms always had a sobering effect, which, Watson supposed, was a bit of the point. "Guess we should have been using these all along, yeah?"

Sholto looked down, a micro-expression of concern fluttering across his face, gone before it had even started. "You mean, now that you know my wicked past?"

"Thought you read my file," Watson said, arching his brow. "You're not the only one with a wicked past." Truth was, the thought of partnering up with someone who cottaged in the '70s did give him pause, even with protection. Then again, the very existence of the nickname "Three Continents Watson" should give Sholto similar pause, really. They were eerily well-matched, all things considered.

"You've been tested?"

"Every year. HIV kills army careers quicker than it kills men. You?"

"Same," Watson echoed. "Bisexual men don't get off much without testing."

Sholto sat on the stretcher, fiddling with a lube packet, also from his pack. "You know, we...don't have to do this, if you're having second thoughts."

"Are you?" Watson asked, staring at the condom, still in the foil.

"I'm not," Sholto said, quietly. "Then again," he said, quirking his head, "I thought it was perfectly reasonable for you to throw a grenade out the back of an ambulance driving 70 miles-per-hour, so perhaps I'm not particularly risk-averse."

Watson heard the lilt of humour in Sholto's voice and smiled. "Well, considering the fact that I've willingly let you drive me around all day, I think it's clear that I'm not particularly risk-averse, either."

"I'm a perfectly safe driver," argued Sholto, in a faux-offended voice.

"Right," Watson said dubiously and sat down on the stretcher beside him. "But I do think you're a safer fuck than you are a driver."

"Is that so?" Sholto said, archly, and pushed him down onto his back.

Watson responded by pulling him down with him. "Mind you, that's not saying much, Posh,” he said, biting the edge off the condom wrapper. “You are a terrible driver." 

"I may be an aggressive driver, but I am skilled," Sholto said, and reached his hand down to revive Watson's faintly flagging cock.

"Prove it, then," Watson challenged, eyes locked to his, with a slight bite of the lip.

"Gladly," Sholto growled and kissed him, soft lips, parted, breathing short and shallow. The decision made, both men folded into one another on the stretcher, emboldened and eager. The impromptu intermission had forced them both back from the edge, even if only slightly, and now they steadily moved back, teasing, tempting, grinding against one another...

_...and oh, fuck, wasn't that gorgeous? _

Watson never wanted to surface again. Pressed up against one another, the heat of their bodies compounded, and the close air in the ambulance became immediately closer. It wasn't long before they were both slick with sweat, slow rivulets of perspiration making their way down flushed skin, tongues tasting salt as they traced defined muscles. Watson's pulse pounded in his ears, the perfect accompaniment to Sholto's increasingly hoarse groans. Blood rushed back into Watson's cock, veins distending, and when Sholto pulled back the hood, his head was deep red and shiny with precum. Watson was left lightheaded, wanting, anticipating, and beyond all else, overwhelmed by the unapologetic need to feel Sholto from the inside.

"Still want this?" He asked, his own voice rasping now, stroking himself. Sholto was temporarily distracted, biting Watson’s neck, leaving a mark well below where his uniform collar would fall. Watson pulled him up, roughly, and repeated his question. “Do you still want this?”

Sholto let loose a slow, amused smile. "Fucking right I do," he said, and Watson was pretty sure that salacious look would be one he'd be remembering in his head for a very, very long time.

Two foil wrappers - the condom and lube packets, both now empty - fell to the floor of the BFA. Watson slipped on the sheath, and watched Sholto slick himself, running his slippery hands over both their cocks to distribute the excess. Watson, impatient, moved to get a better look at that muscled arse and pulled him wide. He ran a single, well-lubed finger along Sholto's obscenely tight hole, teasing it, but not actually entering him - until Sholto reached back and placed his finger on top of Watson's, pressing both of their fingers inside and letting out a soft, appreciative gasp as he did.

"If I promise to go slow," Sholto gritted, bucking back against their fingers, "Can we cut to the chase?"

"Impatient?"

"It’s been a long time since I was properly full," Sholto admitted. He clasped Watson's hand to him again, and then turned to face him, Watson's arm wrapping about his waist as he did, like a dancefloor spin. “So what do you say?”

_ Like I'd ever say no to that, no to you... _

Watson nodded wordlessly, eagerly, mesmerized by the man, and sat up to allow him an easier angle.

Sholto eagerly eased into his lap, against, but not upon Watson's cock, not yet. "Been a long time for you, too, I'm guessing?"

"Ages since it was like this," Watson replied honestly, and Sholto began to stroke his cock with his hands, making him impossibly harder. Watson let his head fall back…

_...so slick, so fast, so fucking good... _

Sholto lifted his hips and placed Watsons hard cock against the base of his hole, flexing his thighs as he did. Watson held his breath, the tension maddening, until bit by bit, inch by inch, Sholto gradually eased him inside. From there it was simply a matter of a controlled fall, with gravity doing all the pulling and Sholto putting on the brakes, until he made his way, as far down Watson’s shaft as he could.

Watson didn't move, didn't want to hurt him, afraid that at this capacity, even a random shift could do some level of damage. Leaving the pace of the ride in Sholto's control was critical, because only he was in a position to gauge good pressure from bad.

He relaxed into the stretch, breathing deep, his face breaking into a broad smile, his eyes closed. With a slight growl, Sholto shifted his hips, tentatively testing the movement, and then shifted again. "Oh, Christ, you beautiful thing," he rumbled, and opened his eyes, locking them to Watson's. He gave a slow roll of his hips then, adjusting himself, and then suddenly let go with a low, guttural moan.

Watson watched, fascinated. "Found it, then?"

"Y-yes. Shit, yes. There..."

"Keep clenching it like that and it won't be there for long."

Watson held steady as Sholto teased his own prostate, again and again, getting faster and more vocal each time. Watson knew that this was when it got tough for a top: struggling to maintain control while your partner becomes bolder, sloppier, reckless, more closer to the edge. It was the most erotic thing Watson had ever witnessed and to watch it happen to someone as pent-up as Sholto was particularly awesome, in the truest sense of the word. Watson kissed him as he crested wave after wave, placing his hands on Sholto’s hips, helping bring him down harder, until...

_ Christ. Right. Right like that..fuck… _

...he felt his own resolve chipping away, daring him to give in to his own gnawing need. Sholto’s hands slapped hard against the back wall, scrabbling for leverage, trying to keep himself steady along that sweet spot, clenching Watson as he did. That clench prompted Watson to shift into high gear, furiously stroking Sholto with one hand, while reaching for his neck, bending him down, bringing their faces together. Watson would lost control first, that long drag of Sholto’s tight muscle milking him, relentless, gorgeous, proving too much to endure. He buried his face in Sholto’s shoulder as he came, his cries muffled as he finally allowed himself to let loose. Those muffled cries, along with the persistent clamp of Watson’s hand around his cock were all Sholto needed to follow suit, head tipped back, shooting erratic stripes along Watson’s upper chest. 

“I’ll - I’ll never look at the back of an ambulance the same again,” Watson grinned in the aftermath. 

“You can say that again,” Sholto huffed, and kissed him before easing off. Happily, he settled back against the side wall, running a hand through his hair, breathing hard. 

Ever the doctor, Watson watched him breathe, found an excuse to take Sholto’s wrists in hand and kissed them sweetly, all the while unobtrusively checking his pulse (he was fine). It was a little presumptuous, arguably ageist, but in the moments after one of his most satisfying sexual encounters in recent years, who could blame Watson for feeling a little protective? 

Sholto, oblivious, reached for his canteen and took a deep swig. “Made a mess of you again, I’m afraid.” 

Watson looked down at the stripes on his chest. “I’ll send you the cleaning bill,” he joked, and lazily wiped himself down with his t-shirt. He paused then, lifting his eyes to Sholto’s. “You keep surprising me, you know?”

“And you me,” Sholto smiled, and poked him playfully in the side with his bare foot. Watson poked back, and that turned into a bit of a tussle, the slightest of wrestles, both men on their knees, grappling for a moment before deciding to fuck it all and collapse into another kiss. 

To Watson, it was a moment that felt more real than anything else he’d experienced since arriving in this country. Beyond the walls of the ambulance, the whole of the Afghan war was being fought, but inside those walls, in this strange, cocooned space, they were safe, they were alone, and there were kisses left to be shared. 

  
Inside those walls, they both agreed: the war could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- [This Week's Follower Tease](https://Perverselyvex.tumblr.com/post/153127123451/follower-tease-chapter-14-of-war-is-hell-will): Those who [follow me on Tumblr](https://perverselyvex.tumblr.com) get a photo or video tease of the upcoming chapter a few hours prior to posting. 
> 
> \- ["Nine glorious inches of difference..."](https://goo.gl/images/FMMahM): Martin Freeman is 5'6", Alistair Petrie is 6'3" . We don't have many images of these two together, but that pic's worth a million on its own! 
> 
> \- [Cottaging](http://www.vice.com/en_uk/read/gay-Britain-uk-cottaging-sex-in-public-toilets-696), [Joe Orton](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Orton), et.al...everything I know about sex in public toilets in England, I learned from ["Prick Up Your Ears"](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0093776) and, well, [George Michael](http://www.walesonline.co.uk/lifestyle/showbiz/george-michael-gives-candid-interview-2063644);
> 
> \- [HIV in the UK military](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3628708/Troops-forced-retire-frontline-catching-STDs-10-000-soldiers-caught-sex-infections-serving-including-100-HIV.html). 
> 
>  
> 
> So, slow burn finally caught - I know it was a long time coming (pun intended) and I do appreciate you hanging in there. There's certainly more to come, so stay tuned!
> 
> Due to the Thanksgiving holiday, next chapter will not post until Sunday, December 4th. Until then, wherever you are, I wish you hope, health and happiness, and know that each and every one of you are on my list of reasons to be thankful in 2016!
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> <3  
> vex.


	15. On the Road: The mountains between Jalriz and Paghman (103 km)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover Notes are used in this chapter - hover over non-English words to see English translations/explanations. It's pretty cool!
> 
> (FYI: This does not work on mobile. Boo.)
> 
> SUNDAY NOTE: Apparently my code's jacked, but can't fix until I get to a desktop on Monday. Check my response to Dryad in the comments for translations.

_The noise is jarring. Hands hitting hard, the slight, sick rattle of aluminium, three quick blows, impatient, demanding, spoiling for a fight. It's a nightmare sound, the sound of the devil come to collect, the sound of a drunk father striking the already-bent screen door..._

Watson flinched.

One moment, they were in their private, quiet cocoon, and the next, fists were pounding on the side of the ambulance, hitting it hard enough to make the vehicle shudder.

"The fuck?" he whispered, hoarsely and sprung to his feet, immediately alert.

Sholto grabbed his trousers and threw Watson his. "Where's your weapon?"

Outside, someone shouted in Pashto, and laughed. Other voices joined in. Footsteps circled the BFA. A wave of panic swept the inside of the ambulance.

"Shit-it's up front, in the cab, in the wheel well!" Watson stammered. "Where's yours?"

"There. Take it," Sholto said, pointing into the corner. "Put on your vest. Cover me."

Watson followed Sholto's instructions, while the other man moved over to the interior door and opened the slider window a fraction of an an inch. "I can see it, right in the wheel well. I’ve got this."

_No, no, no..._

"Goddammit, let me, it was my mistake!" Watson hissed.

Sholto winked. "What? And let you have all the fun?"

Outside, there was more pounding, more shouting. Watson shot him a pleading look, and Sholto shut him down with a firm shake of his head, and a finger over his lips. Frustrated, Watson soundlessly grumbled as he strapped himself into his vest and prepped Sholto's gun, locked and loaded.

_If the bloody bastard won't let me do it, I'll at least have his back..._

With a quick, confirming look to one another, Sholto quietly eased the unlocked interior door open. Outside, hands on either side of the vehicle had begun to push, rocking it. Watson crouched low, getting a bead on the space just above Sholto as the man slowly snaked an arm and then a shoulder out into the driver's cab. From the crack in the door, the view through the windshield was black, giving no indication of what was happening outside. Sholto's fingertips grazed the butt-end of Watson's rifle, but as they did, the exterior door opened with a noisy creak. A wiry-looking man wearing a balaclava snatched the gun before Sholto could grasp it, flipped it around and then aimed it back at Sholto just inches from his forehead before Watson could get a clear shot. The man began shouting madly in Pashto and Watson shouted back in English, pointing his gun.

"Back off, Watson!" Sholto warned, his arms raised as best he could in his current position, half in, half out of the driver's cab.

Before Watson could respond, the back doors of the BFA flew open behind him. Two armed men stormed in and stripped Watson of his firearm before he'd even realised what was happening. They dragged him out of the vehicle and shoved him into the hands of yet another gunman, a portly assailant who grinned like a madman.

All of the insurgents were simultaneously talking, shouting, jubilant in their find. The two men who'd dragged Watson out leapt back into the ambulance and began ransacking the drawers.

Sholto, arms raised and still at gunpoint, had been collected from the cab and led to where Watson stood. He leaned in to Watson, speaking under his breath. "One in the front -- how many in the back?"

"Two. So four total with this guy," Watson jerked his head towards their minder, who promptly shouted and waved his gun in their general direction. Both men shut their mouths and tried to sort a way out.

In the back of the BFA, the men - one with an ugly facial scar, the other younger, a teenager, really - shoved everything that looked like medicine into a bag. The wiry man who'd taken the gun from the wheel well collected the remaining MREs, along with their petrol, and threw them into the back of a nearby pickup truck, red in color...

_Motherfucker._

On the way back, the man had stripped off his balaclava, revealing that he had been, in fact, the bareheaded passenger from the red Toyota up on the mountain. He jutted his chin at them, victoriously, and barked at them in Pashto.

Sholto responded, surprising the man with his ability to speak the language, which led to a brief back and forth between the two men. Watson's eyes cut from one to the other, not knowing what exactly was being said. At least they weren't shouting anymore.

This man, the passenger in the pickup, was clearly the leader of this small band of terrorists, and he launched into a monologue of sorts, speaking with passion, and at length in his native tongue. At the conclusion of his rant, he ran his hand along the bullet-scarred back door of the vehicle in such a way and spoke with such spitting anger, that Watson understood exactly what was going on, without understanding a single word that the man had spoken.

 _They_ _know_ _about_ _the_ _explosion_.

"How?" Watson asked Sholto, under his breath.

Sholto shot a glance at Watson. "The survivor that Edwards saw, remember? He apparently survived a little too long."

Sholto switched back to Pashto at this point, and resumed his conversation with the Passenger. Both Sholto and Watson knew that their slim hope for resolving this with simple negotiation ended the moment they were identified as the team that bombed the other red pickup. The only question now was whether they'd be made hostages or gunned down on the spot.

Watson felt sick, and frustratingly helpless. For the first time this trip, Watson had regrets, and they went farther back than just leaving his weapon in the driver’s cab. If only he hadn't noticed the first pickup, digging holes back at the well. If only he hadn’t made that grenade shot. If only Sholto had resisted the urge chase the second pickup. If only they had driven farther down the road before having their picnic. If only, if only, if only...and none of it would be quite as bad if the preceding hour hadn't been quite so idyllic.

As if on cue, there was a laugh from one of the men in the back of the ambulance. Scarface shouted and held up something in his fingers. The Teenager giggled, scandalised. All heads turned to see what it was, and as they did, both Sholto and Watson cringed:

He was holding up the foil condom and lube packets they'd abandoned, recklessly, on the floor.

 _Fuck_.

The tone shifted, then. At first, the attackers were amused, overjoyed at finding proof of infidel depravity. For both Sholto and Watson, it was a dreaded feeling, and in spite of their mutual desire to simply look away, to pretend that none of this was happening, both men knew they needed to keep their eyes on their attackers, to be prepared for their next move. This, on top of the bombing, effectively removed the question of what would happen to them. The Taliban's traditional punishment for homosexuality was death by stoning. Add on the murder of their friends and destruction of property, and death sentences were assured.

Sholto engaged the Passenger in conversation once more, his body language implying denial of wrongdoing, shrugging off their find. The Passenger clearly didn't believe him. Scarface shouted " _Al-fahsha'!_ " and the Teen backed him up, hissing " _Shudhudh!_ " from behind the Passenger. Even the Big Guy had stopped grinning. Watson felt the whole thing ramping up in the worst way. He shifted his stance, ready to spring at first attack, and he found himself automatically assessing his aggressors, sorting out their likely weaknesses in advance of a battle.

A quick glance over to Sholto showed that he was, perhaps, on the same page. His attention had suddenly turned to the Teen, who, by Watson's estimation, certainly did seem like the weaker link of the four. He was barefaced, likely not by choice, but by age, and his slender frame didn't look as if it would pose much of a fight. Pick him off first, then the Big Guy (who couldn’t have much run in him), and that would drop it down to two-on-two, the two of them versus Scarface and the Passenger, a much fairer fight. This was all assuming, of course, that neither of them would get shot in the process, but even if they did, well, it was still better than death-by-stoning, right? Watson was all-in, just waiting for a cue from Sholto.

The Passenger, also sensing the shift in the room, gave a quick shout to bring his men in line. They gathered closer, each with their weapons at the ready. Sholto continued his fast-talking, but the Passenger was having none of it. His patience had run short, and his voice grew low and sharp. He looked dead-eyed at Sholto and held out his hand, insistently. " _Raka._ "

Sholto eyed the man carefully. Watson watched his expression change, getting a bit defiant, a bit...flirtatious, even.

 _What_ _the_ _fuck_ _kind_ _of_ _tactic_ is _this_?

Sholto, his hands still up, cocked his hip, and replied with a murmur and a glance down at his trouser pocket. The Passenger shouted loudly in response, but backed up a few steps. He motioned for Scarface and shouted a command. Scarface stepped forward and reached into Sholto's trouser pocket with some hesitation. He removed the BFA keys as delicately as if disarming an explosive, and then tossed them to the Passenger, who, at long last, smiled broadly.

"Kill them," he said, in perfect English, and then repeated it, in Pashto. His men moved forward, weapons raised.

Watson's mind raced, but without a firearm and with three guns aimed at the two of them, they had limited options. He looked to Sholto, whose eyes were locked on the receding figure of the Passenger.

"One word." Sholto said, simply, in English.

The Passenger turned, with a smile. "One word what, dead man?"

"They can shoot us, but you should know that all we need to condemn you to the same fate, or worse, is one word." Sholto said cryptically, lifting his finger. "I'm sure one or both of us would be able to get that much out before we died, don't you?"

The Passenger squinted, and took a few steps forward, placing his hand on his rifle. "They don't speak English."

"The word's in Pashto. I first heard it in Kandahar. Call them off," Sholto said, clearly pleased with the man's response. "Or they'll kill him as well, you know."

The Passenger paled at the mention of Kandahar. He worked his jaw, finally waving his hand at his men. Confused, they lowered their firearms. He spoke to them brusquely in Pashto, no doubt giving them a rushed, but reasonable lie for their sudden stand down. He moved back to where Sholto stood.

Sholto's posture relaxed, ever so slightly. "He's lovely," he said.

"He'll marry my daughter, should I have one, when the time's right," said the Passenger, defensively. "Can I ask how you knew?"

Watson was utterly confused, in spite of understanding every word the men were saying. Without knowing English, the Passenger’s men were even more confused, and they held tightly to their weapons, suspicious.

Sholto continued. "He has the best gun, clearly a gift. His age, his build, his manner, but your own posture was the giveaway, though. You’re quite protective."

"I’m merely biding my time until marriage," the Passenger said, innocently. "Unlike you, who have intentionally chosen a life of immorality."

Sholto shot a warning glance at Watson to stay quiet before turning back to the Passenger. "Some would say that morality lies not in the gender of your partner, but in gaining consent. Is he old enough to give consent?"

The Passenger lifted his gun, but only slightly - a modest threat. "I say that both consent and morality are best decided by whomever holds the gun."

"Then let’s gamble, we’ll leave it to fate," Sholto said, with a smirk, but raising his hands a little higher. “Come on - see if you can kill us both before we say that one...little...word.”

The Passenger rubbed his face, staring at them both, and shook his head. "What am I going to do with you, hm?"

"How about letting us go?" Watson asked, unable to contain himself.

The Passenger laughed. "You mean give back all your things and the keys to the ambulance and send you on your way? You must think I am the weakest of leaders. No, I must have something for my trouble."

"Fine," countered Sholto. "Take the things, leave us the ambulance. It's no good to you, anyway."

The Passenger considered it. "No. It is, you see, ideal for turning into one big suicide bomb. After all, no one is afraid of ambulances."

Watson, feeling sick, turned away.

The Passenger carried on, unaffected. "But I do have a notion. Let me speak with my men."

He moved over to the group of insurgents, and they began to speak.

Alone for the moment, Watson and Sholto lowered their arms. "Why are we even negotiating?" asked Watson. "If there's some magic word that will get his men to turn on him, why don't we say it and get it over with?"

"Because we would still die, you and I." Sholto said, matter-of-factly. "This negotiation is about sorting out how we get out of here alive, Watson."

Watson nodded, gravely, and watched the band of insurgents talk. "So you're saying that he and that boy are--?"

"I'm saying don't say another word until they come back to us with a deal," Sholto said, cutting him off before he could say anything foolish.

A few minutes later, the Passenger and his men approached. "Here are our terms,” the Passenger said, still in English. “We will take the items we have already loaded into our truck. We will take the ambulance, which you have so graciously given us. We will also take your bulletproof vests, your guns and your ammunition."

At that, Scarface and the Big Guy relieved them of their vests.

The Passenger continued. "We will, however, leave you with your clothing. We'll leave you with whatever is left of your dignity, and," he said, dunking a canteen into one of the open blitzcans of water, "We will leave you exactly one canteen of water, to share.” He passed it to the Teen, who smugly approached Watson and slung the canteen strap around his shoulder. “Your depravity disgusts us, and for that, as well as for the harm you have sent to our people, we have decided only Allah can truly punish you for the crimes you have done. 'Leave it to fate', as you say, but that doesn’t mean we can’t help it along. Without weapons, without food and with very little water, we don’t think that the odds of you surviving your trip back to Lashkar Gah is at all likely -- and the anticipation of your inevitable prolonged suffering pleases us greatly. Do you accept these terms?"

Watson, speechless, looked to Sholto, who looked back to the Passenger and nodded. "We do."

"Very good." The Passenger said, and watched his men happily disband into the vehicles. "You should remember this as a very generous negotiation," he said, as he slipped into the driver's cab, the Teen by his side, and drove off after the pickup.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

As the dust died down, Watson turned to Sholto. "Well, that was..."

"...indeed." Sholto said, finishing for the both of them, and letting out a heavy sigh.

The stood in silence for a moment, before Watson's hand pinched the top of his nose and he closed his eyes, A moment later, he started shaking, and he hunched over, body convulsing.

"Watson, are you alright?" Sholto asked, suddenly concerned.

The quaking increased as Watson looked up, and honestly, it was Sholto's look of concern that did him in. His laughter -- for that's what it was -- couldn't be contained any longer. Watson barked out a laugh so loud and so long, he had to brace against his own knees for support.

Sholto looked at him as if he'd gone mad...that is, until he gave in, allowing a small smile to creep into the corners of his mouth. That small smile grew into a chuckle, which became a giggle and eventually the two of them were standing there in the dark, laughing until their stomachs hurt and they could barely breathe.

Two ridiculous men, in a ridiculous situation, in the middle of a ridiculous war, laughing instead of crying.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was the "one word" that Sholto used to negotiate with? Find out next chapter! (I'm not really evil, I promise, you'll just find out then, and frankly, if I told you now it would give the boys less to talk about then...)
> 
> **END NOTES**
> 
> \- [This Week's Follower Tease](https://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/post/154031067409/follower-tease-chapter-15-of-war-is-hell-will): Those who [follow me on Tumblr](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com) get a photo or video tease of the upcoming chapter a few hours prior to posting. (Please be 18+ to follow, naughtiness on Fridays!)
> 
> \- Have ambulances really been stolen and made into suicide bombs? [They have](http://www.thedailybeast.com/cheats/2016/11/06/ambulances-used-as-suicide-bombs-in-iraq.html?via=mobile&source=copyurl) [in Iraq](https://www.thefreelibrary.com/IN+BRIEF%3A+Ambulance+bomb+kills+14+in+Iraq.-a0159841432)!
> 
> Thanks so much for the comments and reactions to the last chapter, it was really great! Next chapter will post on **Sunday, January 8th** \- this is a change from the original posting date, guys, but Christmas is kicking my ass this year, and I dont want to rush it. I'll see you in the New Year! 
> 
> <3  
> vex.


	16. On the Road: The mountains between Jalriz and Paghman to ? (? km)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***** TW: This chapter contains mentions of child sexual abuse. A trigger-free summary of this chapter's plot is provided in the end notes. *****

 

One hour and just shy of six kilometers later, on a footpath that led around what they _believed_ to be the eastern edge of the mountains that bordered Kabul, Sholto and Watson stopped to get their bearings.

Watson squinted up at the sky, holding his hand up to the crescent moon. "Straightedge?"

Sholto handed him the small notebook he carried in his pocket. Watson unfolded it and held it up to the moon, measuring the angle to the horizon. "No, according to this, we're still headed east. But we should have at least reached the outskirts of Kabul by now."

Sholto frowned. " _Approximately_ east. Crescent moon navigation is approximate, at best. Look,  the North Star is there, if we want to go east, that means we head that way. If we're on-target, we'll hit Kabul eventually. If not, we'll hit a highway and we can figure out where we are that way. Maybe we can get lucky and hitch a ride with a passing transport, either back to Bagram or home."

Watson hummed his agreement, and shifted the pack higher onto his shoulder. "Hungry?"

"No, not yet. You?"

"I can wait."

As they walked, Watson counted his blessings to himself, a mantra that echoed in his head, in time with his footsteps:

 

_It could be worse._

_It could be raining._

_It could be winter._

_He was alive and he wasn't alone._

 

It was a strangely positive mantra for such a negative situation, and the fact that it was coming from Watson made it even more strange. He credited the combination of Sholto's crack negotiation skills, his expensive whiskey and his singular, well, _ambulance_ skills for the positive spin. Yes, they were deep in shit, Watson acknowledged, even as his right boot began rubbing a raw place at his heel, but _they were alive and neither of them were alone_.

He hadn't always felt so positive. After the Passenger and his pals had taken off, and as soon as the hysterical laughter subsided, things had felt bleak. With no weapons, no maps, no food and a limited water supply, their SERE training immediately kicked in, and they started with a comprehensive inventory of the few items they had on hand.

This did not take long.

Their pockets emptied, between the two of them, all they came up with was one multi tool, a D-ring, a small notebook, a pencil, two desert sweat rags, a cigarette lighter with butane half-gone, an open roll of Polo candies, a safety pin, a tenner and a handful of pound notes, plus their one single canteen of water.

It did not look good.

Watson flicked the lighter again so they could better see the items on the ground. “A weapon, at least,” he said, as he picked up the multitool.

"Such as it is. And a lighter, which we shouldn't use up." Sholto snatched the lighter back and put it in his pocket, along with the tenner, the notebook and the pencil. "Collect the rest of your things. It could be worse - although I do wish we had a compass."

“So long as you're wishing,” Watson scooped up the remaining items. "Think bigger, yeah?"

"Like what?"

"Like...a fully-fueled Jaguar X-Type, with leather seats?”

“You watch too much Bond, Watson.”

“No such thing!”

“Craig or Connery?”

“Bite your tongue, Major, there’s only one.”

Sholto smiled, and Watson wondered if he knew how brightly that smile shone in the dark.

“Barring the availability of a Jaguar, personally, I’d just be happy with a torch, at this point," Sholto dusted off his hands. "Shame they took my pack."

Watson nodded absently, before pausing and breaking out into a smile. "Stay there. Hold that thought!" He said, and dashed off into the darkness, stumbling over hill and dale in the dark. Sholto shouted after him to come back, to no avail.

A few suspenseful minutes later, and a small beam of light came bounding across the grass.

“That bloody lad,” Sholto said with a smirk, and moved to meet him.

Watson held aloft his pack, the one they’d left behind at the picnic site, packed to the gills with food. He also carried the shock blanket and the candle Sholto had brought from Bagram, along with the makeshift almond tin candleholder. “Good thing we didn’t bother tidying up, right?” Watson said, triumphantly, and the mood lightened, even without a compass. They might be stuck in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, but they wouldn’t starve.  


 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“Halekon.”_

_“_ That’s it? That’s the magic Pashto word?”

“The very one.” Sholto turned then, surprised. “You didn't know?”

Watson shrugged, awkward, and continued along their vaguely southeasterly path, trailing behind Sholto. “I mean, I got that the main guy and the little guy were in some sort of…relationship? Is ‘Halekon’ the Pashto word for ‘gay’?“

“Not as simple as that,” Sholto said quickly.

The Halekon were - are -  part of the culture, a tradition of sorts, as Sholto told it, dating back long before Taliban rule. In some Muslim societies, the prohibition against premarital intercourse was extremely high, higher even than that against sexual intercourse between men. Denied even the sight of women, perhaps inevitably, the male gaze turned back on itself - or rather, on the youngest, “prettiest” versions of itself: on its boys.

“So…Halekon are the same as Bacha Bazi?”

“You know about Bachas, then?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen them…”

Soon after he’d arrived at Bastion, Watson and his unit had been approached by a small group of Bacha Bazi just outside camp. Androgynous “dancing boys,” none old enough to grow a beard, each wearing eyeliner and henna, draped in jewelry and feminine fabrics. They coquettishly jeered as the soldiers passed, and even though they didn’t speak English, their intent was clear. It was beyond disturbing, no matter what your orientation, to be sexually propositioned by children. Some of the soldiers told the RMPs, of course, who promptly shooed the Bachas away from the base — but it didn’t do much to settle the concerns of any of the men that were approached. They were told that because it was a cultural thing, it wasn’t an area in which British forces were allowed to intervene. That fact didn’t sit right with many of the men, including Watson.

“So Halekon are prostitutes?” Watson asked, feeling suddenly sick.

“Halekon are slightly different than the Bacha Bazi,” Sholto slowed his gait to fall in line with Watson’s. “From what I’ve heard, the Bachas are more like prostitutes. What the Halekon experience, in Kandahar, is more longer term, I suppose?”

“Still kids, though, right?”

“Yes. And they experience just as much coercion as the Bachas, but with a thin veneer of…I don’t know, I suppose they'd call it a kind of romance.”

Watson took a measured sip from their canteen and handed it to Sholto. “Romance? Really?”

“They’d call it that, yes,” Sholto repeated, and demurred. “No, you keep that for now. In Kandahar, Halekon “marry” their patrons, stay with them for years—”

“And get showered with gifts in exchange for the abuse. Charming.” Watson said, remembering what Sholto had said about the boy’s gun. “So, after the pretend marriage and the gifts, what happens then?”

“Eventually their patron marries a woman, and then it’s…done. The Halekon - and theoretically, the patron’s homosexuality -  are both left behind.“

“But what happens to them then? The boys?”

Sholto squinted at the stars. “Some, like the lad back there, get married off to one of the patron’s children. Others will grow older and find a Halekon of their own, until _they_ find a wife. And so it goes, on and on, a never-ending cycle.”

“And the Taliban are okay with this?”

“Not in the slightest — they outlawed it, declared it incompatible with Sharia Law, and made it punishable by death.”

“Wait.” Watson stopped. “So then - that lot that took the ambulance, they _weren't_ Taliban?”

Sholto’s voice went tight. “No, they _were_ Taliban, Watson, that’s precisely the reason that so-called negotiation worked as well as it did.”

Sholto pushed ahead, then, and it took Watson a moment to register that Sholto wasn't just eager to get out of the woods.

“Oi!” Watson shouted, and moved double time to catch up to him. “There was nothing ‘so-called’ about it!”

Sholto grunted and kept his eyes on the ground ahead.

Watson tried again. “I mean it. They should have killed us. They _would_ have killed us if not for your ability to negotiate.”

“That wasn’t negotiation, that was blackmail.” Sholto’s voice was still strained, and he walked faster, the torchlight bobbing in the dark. “We’re only free because I threatened to expose people’s secrets and fears.”

Watson snorted. “You’re upset about threatening to expose a pederast?”

“Don’t be an arse - he can burn in hell,” Sholto spat. “But exposing the crime would’ve exposed the child. The _abused_ child.”

_Shit. Of course. He’s a father._

“Right.” Watson scrubbed his face with his hands, “but that didn’t happen, did it? And because you took that risk, you’ll be able to go back to your own boys. Christ, Sholto, we didn’t ask to be held up at gunpoint, did we?”

“Don’t be absurd, of course we didn’t ask. But if we hadn’t—“

“Hadn’t what?”

“Nothing. Nevermind, let’s keep moving,” Sholto said, and stepped forward, dry vegetation crunching underfoot.

Watson pulled him back by the shoulder. “Not a chance,” he said, forcing the other man to turn around. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say that we wouldn't have even been in this trouble if we hadn't stopped, if we hadn’t—“

“What? Fucked?” Sholto asked, and shook his head. “No, that wasn't what I was thinking. I would never.”

“What then?” It was hard to discern expressions in the dark, but Watson couldn't help but catch the hitch in Sholto’s voice on “never.”“If that wasn't it, what was it?”

“The blackmail, the hold up, us being stranded — there were steps all along the way that could have prevented it all.” Sholto snapped.

“Such as?”  

“If we hadn’t chased that pickup in Kabul, for one. I made that decision. I put us in their crosshairs.”

Watson snapped back. “No, they only wanted to kill us once they sorted out who we were — so if you’re looking for someone to blame, remember that _I’m_ the one that threw the grenade.”

“Only because I _told_ you to do it!”

“Only because that’s your _job_!” Watson said, exasperated, and dropped his pack at his feet. “This is madness. You want to know who to blame? I was the one who told you about the first pickup. You want to go back farther? Fine. I was 15 minutes late to the motor pool this morning - maybe if I’d been on time, we might’ve missed that first pickup altogether!”  

“Enough!” Sholto said, annoyed, and abruptly sat down on a nearby rock. “Clearly, if we’re at the point where time travel is our best remedy, we’re past the point of blame.”

“Well, we are at war, after all. No one’s to blame but the generals.” Watson said, walking to the place where he sat.

Sholto looked up, with amusement. “Is that so?”

“Sure. Not that war’s complicated enough to need generals,” he said, insinuating his thigh between Sholto’s legs. “I mean, they move forward, we move forward. We tap them, they tap us.”

Sholto chuckled. “A fairly simplistic view of military strategy, don’t you think, Watson?”

“I dunno. It’s gotten me this far, hasn’t it?” Sholto’s position on the rock placed the two men nearly eye level with one another, and that fact certainly didn’t escape Watson. Hands on Sholto’s shoulders, his mouth sought out the other man’s lower lip, and slowly…sucked.

“It’s…gotten you…very far…indeed,” Sholto murmured, the sentence drawn out over the spaces where Watson surfaced. He reached his hands down to Watson’s wrists and held them there on his thighs, long fingers wrapping around them entirely, pulse thumping hard in response. “However, had you paid closer attention to “History of Warfare” at Sandhurst, perhaps you’d have remembered that while ‘campaign combats are occasional… _marching_ is constant.’

Sholto released Watson’s wrists then, much to the doctor’s dismay. “Are you quoting 19th century military strategy to me as a reason to end a snog?”

Sholto couldn’t hide his pleasure that Watson had, at least, been paying some kind of attention in his PQO course, but still managed to correct him. “I’m quoting the _observations_ of a 19th century military strategist to get you back onto the march, Watson,” Sholto stood and kissed him squarely on his head, murmuring. “The quicker we advance, the sooner we’ll find a bed to sleep in.”

“Or _not_ sleep in,” Watson grinned.

Sholto laughed. “Good luck with that. I’d bet even money that you’ll be too chin-strapped to take off your boots by the time we rest. Come on, lad.”

Watson objected, but his protestations were really just an excuse to force Sholto into the lead, so he could stare at Sholto’s arse as they hiked - and honestly, who could blame him?  


 

 

 

* * *

 

They wouldn't find Kabul that night - neither would they hit a highway - any highway - despite following what they thought was the North Star. So much for basic navigation.

“We should have followed the river,” Watson said, regretfully. The raw place on his heel had turned into a blister, and he was more than ready for this 18? No, 19-hour day to come to an end, even if it meant sleeping unprotected, out in the open.

“We should have done a lot of things,” Sholto agreed, too tired to list them all. The path they'd been following had ended in a junction, a crossing of similarly worn paths with no sign of which might lead them to some sort of civilisation.  “I will say, though, from this day forward, I solemnly swear to carry a compass with me, at all times.”

“That makes two of us,” Watson said, managing to work up a laugh, and then wincing, as the sand slipped beneath his feet, forcing him to land wrong on his blister. “Ow, shit…hang on, give me a moment, I’ve got to wrap this thing better.” He sat down on the ground and began undoing his boot laces, while Sholto went ahead to scout out their options.  

It was going on midnight, and the stars, while colossally unhelpful for navigation, proved perfect for lulling him to sleep. He’d nearly fallen asleep on the spot, boot undone and all, when Sholto began shaking him.

“Wake up — put on your shoes!” Sholto said eagerly, grinning from ear to ear. He pulled him to his feet. “Come with me, come on!”

Watson lashed his laces together quickly and allowed himself to be half pushed, half drug down the left-leaning path. “I’m warning you, Sholto, I’m too tired for this kind of build-up over nothing.”

“It’s something, alright,” he said, “Close your eyes.”

“Seriously?”

“Come on. Indulge the old man.”

With the barest grumble, Watson did as he was told, and allowed Sholto to lead him another half-dozen steps. The path took a sharp right turn, and then they stopped.

“Okay,” Sholto breathed, turning him just so. “Look…”

Watson opened his eyes. The path had taken them to the edge of a valley, to that familiar moonscape of yellow sand and scrubby brush, the one they’d spent the better part of their day driving through. But while it looked familiar, it was clearly not a valley they'd driven through before, because in the middle of this valley was a massive complex of boxes, boxes with windows, boxes that looked like...tiny houses, as far as the eye could see…

He looked over to Sholto. “What the hell is that?”

Sholto beamed broadly. “That is Aliceghan.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER-FREE SUMMARY**   
>  _Watson and Sholto in the aftermath of being ambulance-jacked. In the middle of nowhere, with no weapons, no maps, no compass and a limited water supply, their SERE training immediately kicked in. Watson found that the insurgents hadn't found their picnic area, and went to retrieve his pack, which contained a good amount of food, as well as a torch, a blanket and the candle Sholto had swiped from Bagram._   
> 
> 
> _Using less-than-stellar nighttime navigation techniques, the men set out to find a safe place to spend the night and arrange transport either back home or back to Bagram. Watson was strangely upbeat, which was good, because Sholto decidedly was not, blaming himself for the turn that this trip had taken and for his method of "negotiation" with the insurgents in the previous chapter._   
> 
> 
> _Watson attempted to cheer him, but nothing seemed to cheer him more than the presence of what appeared to be a strange and massive housing estate in the middle of an Afghan valley he called "Aliceghan"..._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **END NOTES:**
> 
> \- This chapter’s follower tease - 
> 
> \- To be fair to the boys, nighttime navigation really isn’t simple. [Here’s a quick rundown of different nighttime methods of finding your way without a compass…](http://www.wikihow.com/Find-Direction-Without-a-Compass)
> 
> \- [Halekon](http://articles.latimes.com/2002/apr/03/news/mn-35991), [Bacha Bazi](http://www.sfgate.com/opinion/brinkley/article/Afghanistan-s-dirty-little-secret-3176762.php) and [what American troops have been advised to do about them.](http://www.nytimes.com/2015/09/21/world/asia/us-soldiers-told-to-ignore-afghan-allies-abuse-of-boys.html?_r=0)
> 
> \- Want to read “the observations of a 19th century military strategist? [Click here to read Geoffrey Demarest’s paper on T. Miller MaGuire](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&ved=0ahUKEwjr3KCW2bDRAhVDKyYKHdAqCJYQFggaMAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fsmallwarsjournal.com%2Fblog%2Fjournal%2Fdocs-temp%2F205-demarest.pdf%3Fq%3Dmag%2Fdocs-temp%2F205-demarest.pdf&usg=AFQjCNEHNnHXSQWRiUhagnTZcTP6U_chrg&sig2=s_mh7UNHQzDDeLPzfpKbUg), entitled _“19th Century Military Strategy and it’s Applicability to Insurgent Warfare”_ (but mind, this link will upload a .pdf)
> 
> \- What does PQO stand for? [The Professionally Qualified Officer (PQO) course at Sandhurst](http://www.army.mod.uk/training_education/25497.aspx), of course! If you write for John, or if you're just interested in what his military training might have been like, this page is a good place to start!
> 
>  
> 
> What is Aliceghan? You'll find out all about in in the next chapter, which will post on **Sunday, February 5th** , which is later than usual due to SERIES FOUR OMG, but also to make some breathing room for my cool new fandom side hustle (but sshhh, I'm going by a shorter name over there, trying to keep my voice separate from the porn, don'tcha know)!
> 
> Want to take a moment to thank _BakerStMel_ for a lightning quick Beta yesterday - after futzing with this chapter for weeks, I finally got the draft to her on Friday and she took it on like it was no big deal. It was and it is, Mel, so _THANK YOU!_
> 
> Thank you as well to all the commenters, kudo'ers and bookmarkers, you guys are helping me as I get closer to the finish line on this fic -- but there are still many miles to go (384 miles, or 618 km, to be specific, at least from where the men had their picnic) -- so stay tuned!
> 
> <3  
> vex.


	17. Alice Ghan

It was like walking into a ghost town.

“What the hell _is_ this?” Watson asked, marveling at the sheer size of the place.

Sholto clapped his hand on Watson’s back, and smiled. “If we’re lucky? It’s our home for the night. Come on, let’s find camp…”

As they walked through the apparently abandoned village, using the torch to peer through the windows, Sholto gave Watson a brief history of the location. “I’ve only ever heard of the place as a sort of cynical punchline,” he said, “A cautionary tale.”

“Clearly,” Watson said. “Is it safe? I mean, does anyone live here?”

“Not anymore — oh, I think there’s a bit of bedding in this one.” Sholto stepped over to the entrance of the two-room structure and tried the door. It opened easily. Watson gave a nervous look over each shoulder before following him inside.

“The Australians built it,” Sholto said, moving into the room on the right, towards the a blue bundle lying on the floor. “’Alice’, like Alice Springs, and ‘Ghan’ for Afghanistan? The intentions were good, at least — to build a community that would be a kind of haven for their returning Afghan refugees.”

“When was this?” Watson watched Sholto untied the mattress bundle, and wandered into the room on the left, which appeared to be a kitchen of sorts. At the far end of the room, the door of a small wooden cabinet had been left ajar.

“Not that long ago, really. But the place was barely built before it was abandoned, and now it just sits here in the middle of the valley, vacant,” Sholto said from the other room.

In the kitchen, Watson approached the cabinet, commenting over his shoulder, “That seems like such a waste of --

“Rats!” they said, simultaneously —Watson, in response to a nest of more than half a dozen rats spilling out of the open cabinet and Sholto, in response to the gnawed center of of the mattress. They both ran outside and made noises neither of them would ever admit to.

When the creepy-crawlies had died down, Sholto crossed his arms and grinned sheepishly. “Okay, so not _entirely_ vacant.”

According to Sholto, there were a total of 1,100 homes in AliceGhan, each little more than four walls and a roof, with each room featuring glass windows that looked out onto the rest of the village.

“That was the problem,” Sholto said, nodding to the windows in the third house they entered. “Well, one of them, anyway.”

“Windows?”

Sholto frowned. “Well, not so much the windows so much as the walls.”

Watson eyed the beige plaster walls. “What? Not the right color?”

“No, they didn’t exist. Outer walls — you’ve seen ‘em. Afghanis always put them up around the perimeter of their homes, for security and modesty. The Aussies didn’t put up any outer walls.” Sholto found a bright yellow plastic canister in the next house, and attached it to their pack with the D-ring. “Problem is, if you’re a Muslim woman, and there aren’t any outer walls on your house, you’re confined inside — and the windows just made it worse. A few men ended up building brick walls right in front of the windows, just to keep their wives safe and able to move freely around their home. Open plan communities just aren’t culturally-appropriate in this country. Would you grab that propane tank?”

“What for?”

“Not sure yet,” Sholto mused. “But presuming it’s not empty, it’s fuel, right?”

Watson hefted the tank and they walked outside. A few blocks later, they found a rusty wheelbarrow and loaded their finds into it. Contraband in tow, Sholto led them deeper and deeper into the center of the village, passing the rare old banger car, long left derelict, and a host of derelict buildings: an empty greenhouse with a peaked glass roof, some sort of sewing room with some scraps of fabric remnants inside, and what must have been a school, a long building with makeshift tables and chairs — but curiously, no toilets. In fact, there was a clear lack of toilets, or any kind of indoor plumbing, throughout AliceGhan.

“That was the other, key failing,” Sholto said, as they approached one of the wells that served the community. It was surrounded by a solid structure made of pakhta bricks, like everything else, and had an overhead canopy to shield users from the sun. “They promised running water, but they never delivered. They built five wells for over a thousand households, some with as many as 20 people living in them. The UN Development Program ended up having to ship water into town in trucks.”

“That’s why those containers are everywhere,” Watson noted, nodding to the plastic container Sholto was removing from the D-Ring. “Should we have taken a few more of those?”

“If we planned on staying, yeah,” Sholto said, “But we’re only here for as long as it takes us to figure out a way to get back home.”

“Roger that,” said Watson, and together, they filled up their one canteen and the large container, their fingers clumsy. With hydration ensured, exhaustion was rapidly catching up with them both.

“Come on, Watson,” Sholto said, after they’d loaded the container into the wheelbarrow. “I can't take you to bed unless we actually find a bed.”  


 

 

* * *

 

 

They didn’t find a bed — well, not in the British sense, anyway — but not too far away from the well, they found a house with some brightly-colored, well-worn carpets, and they managed to scrounge up enough rat-free bedding to make themselves a very comfortable place to sleep, which, as predicted, was all they would do that night. By the time they’d found the house, unloaded the wheelbarrow and set up the bedding, they both collapsed onto it, bringing a long-awaited end to this longest of days.

The next morning, Watson woke up just before dawn, a full bladder forcing him reluctantly out of bed and onto his feet. Sholto didn’t stir as Watson moved to the door, and exited the house. Sholto had said there were supposedly nearby pits that the AliceGhan residents resorted to using when the plumbing didn’t come through, but Watson had no idea where they were. In lieu of knowing, he simply strolled a fair distance from the house and from the well, and pissed into the sand.

_A slash is just a slash, after all…_

He closed his eyes, enjoying the cool, pre-dawn temperature. To say it was quiet was an understatement. There was no traffic, no people, and even the rats had called it a night. His blister, still present, ached, and he reminded himself to tend to it once he was more awake. After all the events of the previous day, this current level of calm, privacy and relative safety soothed him, in spite of the pain in his foot and the fact that they were still stranded. They’d be fine, he told himself - somehow, some way, they’d find their way home. And when they did, presumably not too long after, Bastion would receive a lightly-used MRI machine, all made possible by that gorgeous, sleeping man just inside that house. He still hadn’t sorted it, the fact that this officer, his commander would work so hard to make something like that happen without ever saying a word. It made him rethink so much about the military and the fact that the medical—

_Wait - what was that?_

Watson’s thoughts were disturbed by his gradual consciousness of a noise, a persistent one, kind of a  

_a squeak_

Happily, not the squeak of vermin, no, it was more like the squeak of

_metal on metal, tinny, mechanical_

In short, it was a kind of noise that was difficult for Watson to process, this early in the morning, with his eyes still closed.

_christ, what now?_

Watson opened one eye to see the source of the noise, unwilling to commit to opening both eyes until he knew what he was dealing with. What he saw was surprising enough that he opened them both in spite of himself.

_A bicycle._

Blue, old, rusty, the squeak likely coming from the rusted springs in the seat. A girl’s bike, the kind with an angled cross bar,

_like Harry’s_

crossing the sand. Except the driver wasn't a girl, it was a boy, a young boy, riding across the length of the valley. He was a good 200 yards away from where Watson stood, and when Watson finally stopped being shocked at seeing another living soul in the valley — and a child, at that — he quickly looked down to make sure he was tucked in, and then immediately ducked behind the nearest house. It wouldn’t do to be seen. Watson watched as the boy pedaled, obliviously, towards the horizon.

Back at the house, Watson slipped back into the bed. Sholto stirred, and rolled over, throwing his arm over his hip. “No waking up,” he grumbled.

“Tell it to my bladder,” Watson kissed him on his forehead, and nestled deeper into the bedding. “Remind me to tell you about the kid.”

Sholto’s turned. “Kid?”

“Riding past us, on his bike,” Watson murmured. “Don’t worry, he didn't see me. I don't think. Anyway. Riding his bike.”

“Hm, odd. If I were awake right now, I’d—”

“ _If_ you were awake?”

Sholto hummed, and pulled Watson closer. “Yes. _If,”_ he said, but never finished his thought. Instead, he slid downwards, dragging his lips — and occasionally his teeth — along Watson’s torso, slow and steady.

_Oh, christ…_

Watson exhaled. “I thought sex drives slows with age,” he teased.

“Consider me an exception,” Sholto growled, and continued his slide.

The warmth of the bed, the quiet of the house, and Sholto’s sweet, unhurried descent lulled Watson gently into arousal. His hands played along the bedding, feeling the coarse texture of the fabric, as Sholto sucked slowly on each of his nipples. With a curious gleam in his eye, Sholto blew a soft stream of air across the saliva-slick nubs, but they didn’t completely pebble until Sholto turned a stubbled cheek against them, a raspy, delicious sandpaper that made Watson bite his lip to keep from moaning. The move was a welcome reminder that he had, in fact, woken up with a _man_ this morning, a man who seemed determined to keep him hungry and in this bed for quite some time. Watson arched lazily as Sholto pressed down to his abdominals, skirting his waist, the man’s tongue dipping playfully into his navel.

_…bloody hell…_

Watson’s hands trailed down to Sholto’s shoulders, which featured a spray of unexpected freckles. He moaned as Sholto adjusted his body farther down the bed, but allowed his mouth to remain right where it was, stubbornly fixated on his belly. Watson whined slightly, and lifted his hips, as if Sholto’s movements were somehow subject to gravity, to physics, to the very will of Watson’s mind — which, considering the fact that Sholto chose that precise moment to shoot him a sly smile before disappearing under the covers, they very well might have been.

Watson huffed out a contented breath as Sholto’s mouth found him, and stared at the ceiling above, wondering how he’d managed to find himself in this place, with this man, this amazing man, doing all sorts of things that were

_…fuck, impossibly good._

It wasn’t long before Watson, curious and playful himself, ducked his own head under the covers. Sholto’s eyes met his in the dark, a sleepy smile curving around Watson’s cock. His movements were languid, the movements of a man with no particular plans for the day, other than getting his lover off and perhaps having brunch later. Watson imagined him back home in England, somewhere in the suburbs, in tennis whites, perhaps, enjoying the life of the leisure class.

_...which, to be fair, in this particular instance, sounds nice…_

Watson eventually reached down and relieve Sholto of his efforts, pulling him up to face him. It wasn’t that Watson wanted him to stop, it’s just that he didn’t want this particular closeness to end — and had Sholto’s clever mouth been allowed to continue, it most certainly would have. Watson wanted to savor this, to take the time to notice the way Sholto’s lips had flushed pink from their exertions — pretty, which was not a word that Watson would ever have thought he’d use to describe his commander.  Up close, in the morning light, his eyes were the brightest blue, so unlike his own, which were dark no matter the time of day. Sholto’s lashes were fairer than his own, and the slight creases at the corners of his eyes only served to accentuate the differences between them, enabling Watson’s own (heretofore unrecognized) age kink.

Sholto furrowed his brow, and ran a hand up to Watson’s cheek, cradling it, kissing him pointedly. “Everything okay?”

“Better than okay,” replied Watson, kissing him back sweetly, a hand stroking along Sholto’s  bicep, slowly squeezing the taut muscle. “It just feels nice to take some time.”

Sholto nodded, a smile playing on his lips. “Feels like time’s stopped.”

“Maybe it has.”

“If that’s the case,” Sholto stretched, long and lean, and faced Watson with a knowing look, “We should take full advantage, don’t you think?”

Impossibly long legs extended out beside Watson, while Sholto’s well-muscled arms simultaneously stretched above him and bloody hell, it was a challenge, a come on, a come-and-get-it, and Watson wasn’t about to let a pose like that go unanswered. He coaxed Sholto onto his stomach, running his hands down that well-postured spine, teeth nipping at that elegant nape.

 _The human spine consists of 33 vertebrae_ , Watson thought automatically, phrases from his anatomy text inevitably drifting in and out of him mind, the dangers of long-ago lessons learned by rote. He could remember the brightly colored sidebar illustration in his textbook, starting with the cervical vertebrae at the top of the spine, buried to deep to touch. His tongue tripped lightly against Sholto’s nape, where he imagined Sholto’s C1 vertebra ( _“the atlas”_ ), merging with his C2 vertebra ( _“the axis”_ ) to connect his skull to his spine. His mouth worked against the skin, far above the C3 and the C4, but he knew they were there, just out of reach. His focused attention on such a small span of flesh made Sholto gasp out loud, and Watson smiled, tickling, tripping his tongue against muscle - _splenius capitis_ \- well above the C4, C5, C6 and C7, following the natural arch of the spine.

By the time he reached the thoracic section, Sholto had placed his hands flat on the the bedding, pressing himself upwards to meet Watson’s hungry mouth. _The thoracic section consists of 12 vertebrae labelled T1 through T12._ Watson allowed his teeth to press into the flesh. _Attachment to the ribcage provides for only limited range of movement._ Well, tell that to Sholto because by T5, Sholto was squirming, panting, his cock seeking out friction, a low groan emerging from that posh throat.

Watson slipped his hands down to Sholto’s hips, pulling him up onto his knees just as he started his slide into _the lumbar section, 5 vertebrae labelled L1 through L5, the largest ones, the ones that bear the brunt of the upper body weight_ , and god bless, this man looked like a matinee idol, managing to seem rugged and masculine, Watson mused, even with the noises he was making. Head bent, Sholto’s fingers played along the edge of his own cock, and Watson approved.

The intersection of Sholto’s lumbar bones and the sacrum (… _a single bone structure made from 5 fused vertebrae with no intervertebral discs…_ ) was found at the small of the back, and once there, Watson paused, the cleft of Sholto’s arse immediate, inviting. Sholto was so strung out with anticipation, he was probably inches away from proper begging. Watson took pity on him (and frankly, on himself), and impulsively pressed his cheeks apart, kissing the man right where he needed it the most.

In his experience, Watson found that most women wouldn’t allow this, wouldn’t permit their lover’s mouth anywhere near their arsehole, or if they did, it was only after extensive and exhausting preparation: cleansing, perfuming, bleaching and even then there lingered a sense of squeamishness. Not to be sexist about it - Watson was sure there were plenty of men out there who felt exactly the same way - he’d just never personally met any of them. Of course it was altogether possible that _he_ was the problem. Perhaps he was simply too vulgar in liking the act as much as he did - but if he was, Sholto was proving to be just as avid a vulgarian, bucking enthusiastically against him, emitting a series of groans as Watson’s tongue positively took him apart.

Despite their mutual attempts to prolong the moment, the end was inevitable. When that time came, they collapsed against one another, shifting positions until they could take the other in their mouths, sucking in rhythm, tuning into each other’s precise frequency until they were keening at the same pitch, vibrating in tandem, right up to and including their less-than-muted conclusions.

Sholto drifted back to sleep quickly after that - some cliches were rooted in truth - but Watson took longer to fade, admiring the man’s profile and how content he looked as he slept. And truth be told, why shouldn’t he? For all their troubles, for the time being, they had a place to sleep, water to drink and someone to love, and in that particular place and time, that was more than enough to be getting on with.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END NOTES:
> 
> \- Follower Tease: [a wide shot of AliceGhan](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/perverselyvex/156532166984).
> 
> \- [AliceGhan is a real place](http://www.abc.net.au/news/2010-06-16/australian-housing-project-falls-flat-in/869294), and [it really did turn out](http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/09/world/asia/09land.html) to be [a colossal fuck-up](http://www.dawn.com/news/1087472) for all parties involved. I have utilized author’s license with the location of the community as well as the timeline (in real life, it was started in 2006 and it’s never been 100% abandoned, even though the vast majority of residents moved out in the first few years of its existence). This [recent PDF](www.af.undp.org/content/dam/afghanistan/docs/.../Alice%20Ghan%20booklet.pdf) addresses promised improvements to AliceGhan (but warning: will automatically download .pdf to your desktop). Check out [this slideshow](http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2011/08/09/world/asia/20110809_LAND.html) for more images, and more information about this community.
> 
> \- Are there rats in Afghanistan? You betcha - [so many that Victor pest control donates cases of traps to U.S. soldiers every year](http://www.victorpest.com/victor-donates-traps-to-us-troops).
> 
> \- [Pakhta bricks](https://hotmilkforbreakfast.wordpress.com/2012/10/06/bricks-that-build-a-country) built Afghanistan. 
> 
> \- I never understood [how very little](http://www.kidport.com/Reflib/Science/HumanBody/SkeletalSystem/Spine.htm) I knew about [spinal anatomy](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f8/Illu_vertebral_column.jpg/250px-Illu_vertebral_column.jpg) until Watson took it upon himself to start kissing down [Sholto’s perfectly postured spine](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/caffienekitty/11224213/3516854/3516854_original.jpg).
> 
>  
> 
> So, Sholto and Watson found a place to rest and recharge for the night, but when they wake up, the work begins on getting themselves home! 
> 
> The 3-week cycle seems to be working well with my current schedule, so thank you for your patience! Next chapter will post on **Sunday, February 19th**!
> 
> <3  
> vex.


	18. Alice Ghan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I have no affiliation to the Toyota Motor Corporation.
> 
> Also: This chapter has NOT been Beta'd (but some beta'ing may occur after the fact)!

The sun was high in the sky when Watson woke up again. He found himself alone in the house, but woke to a familiar smell, a scent of home. Curious, he wrapped some of the bedding around his shoulders and stepped out into the courtyard to find Sholto dressed and alert, moving busily around a propane tank with a small clear glass full of brown liquid in his hand. 

“Good morning,” Watson mumbled blearily, and sat down on the concrete steps.

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” Sholto said, a bit leeringly, and then presented him with the small clear glass full of brown liquid. “Cuppa?”

“You didn’t…”

“I very much did,” Sholto grinned, and reached for his own glass.

“God. Actual tea, you’re brilliant,” Watson sipped and could have swooned. While tea bags came in every MRE kit, heating the water for that cup could be a challenge without a brew kit. When Sholto and Watson had left Bastion, they’d thought they’d be only out for a single day . so a brew kit had not been included in their supplies. “So this is why you had me take the tank?”

Sholto nodded. “Priorities, Watson. Tea is one.”

“Cheers,” Watson said, and tipped his glass against Sholto’s before peering at his makeshift kitchen, which consisted of the propane tank and several stacked pakhta bricks. Sholto had simply turned on the gas, and directed the open flame at a small, now blackened teapot that sat on top of the bricks. “Bit dangerous for a cup of tea, innit?”

“No such thing.” 

“And the glasses?”

“ _Iztakhan_.”

“God bless you.”

“Cute. No, that’s what they’re called. The glasses. They were in the cupboard, with the teapot” he said, turning off the propane and hissing at the heat. “Left behind."

“Lucky,” Watson said, sitting back down on the concrete stoop. 

“ _Likely_ ,” Sholto corrected. “Most people left Aliceghan on foot, so they had to pack light.”

Watson nodded. It explained why so much had been left behind here - the bedding, the propane, the water containers - once upon a time, it was likely there’d been much more here, before scavengers came to take the best of what had been left. 

_Scavengers. Like us…_

The repatriated refugees certainly wouldn’t have had the means to ring up a moving van to get them the hell out of Aliceghan. And the few banger cars they’d left behind were clearly out of commission. 

_Wonder where they’re all now, all those Aussie refugees…_

Sholto topped off his tea, and did the same for Watson, interrupting his thoughts before settling down next to him. “As for us, we need a plan as well, yes?”

Watson blew on his tea. “As much as I like the company, yes, we do need to get home.”

Sholto winked, picked up a stick and drew a crude map of Afghanistan in the compacted dirt. “Alright, then, AliceGhan is here, in the middle of this valley, bordered by this road to the west and these mountains, to the north and south…”

“What’s to the east, then?”

“Hm,” Sholto deadpanned, “I’m going to say more sand?”

“Don’t be an arse,” Watson groused. “Something’s got to be that way. Otherwise where would the boy have come from?”

“The boy?”

“The kid - the kid on the bike.”

“Right. I mean, presuming that wasn’t some sort of stress-induced figment,” Sholto stared at his hastily sketched out map and considered it. “A kid on a bike could ride a fair distance. Just because we can’t see a settlement in that direction doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

“So, they could help us.”

“Or, they could shoot us in the head,” Sholto added. “There’s no knowing which, and without a weapon, I’m feeling a little too vulnerable to meet the neighbors.”

“Good point,” Watson said, grimly. “So, fuck it, we load up on as much water as we can carry and we head out to the road, on foot. Road’s gotta end up somewhere, right? If we can get to a phone, we can get home.”

“Or at least to Bagram.”

“Or at least to Bagram. Presuming we don’t run into any trouble.”

“And you thought making tea was dangerous.” Sholto sighed, and sat back. “Dammit, I’d give my right arm for either a car or a rifle right now…”

“How about both?”

Sholto shook his head. “Bit too greedy to ask for both.”

Watson laughed and sat back, leaned his back against the door, when a nag of an idea surfaced in his brain, an idea about the junkers they’d seen last night, and all at once, he realised something rather promising. “Ha!” He said, louder than he’d intended. 

_…because for fuck’s sake, how remarkable would it be for Bloody Watson, Sr. to prove helpful in a clutch…_

Sholto turned at the sound, puzzled. “What’s on, Captain?”

Watson grinned and got to his feet, downing the rest of his tea in one go and gesturing for Sholto to do the same. “Drink up, Major. We’ve got work to do.”

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Corollas?” 

“Corollas.”

“Is this just because they’re Toyotas?” Sholto said, thinking of the pickups that put them in this position to begin with. “Because if so, Watson, I think choices are a bit too thin here to be showing brand loyalty…”

"Look, if we’re lucky enough to find an operational vehicle on its own, of any make, good for us, any make will do,” Watson kept up a brisk pace, stopping at a pile of water containers to pick a clean one before resuming his hike towards the center of the community. “But chances are, anything that’s still here was left behind because it couldn’t be driven out. And _that’s_ why we need Corollas.”

“Still not making any sense, Watson.” Sholto’s voice had become clipped, a sign his patience was rapidly coming to an end.

“Okay, alright,” Watson said, as they passed the well they’d visited the night before.“You know Afghanistan loves Corollas. Ever wondered why?”

“They’re decent cars?”

“Yeah, but so are Fords, arguably. So are, Land Rovers, and, and Mercedes - but they’re not here, not in the same way Corollas are.” Watson paused to get his bearings. “I think it was close to here…I remember…the school…? This way!”

Sholto followed Watson, his curiosity piqued. “So why aren’t they as common? The Fords and the Rovers and the Benzes?”

Watson smiled, over his shoulder. “Because of the Russians.”

  

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

He found the first of the cars he was looking for, a silver eighth generation E-110 Corolla, rusted and resting beside a ditch.

“Right, give me a moment,” Watson opened the creaky driver’s door and he darted into the seat, tripping the bonnet release. “My understanding is,” he said, moving to the front of the car and lifting the bonnet to see what was inside, “when the Soviets occupied Afghanistan in the 70s, nobody wanted to be seen in a western car, so people started buying Russian cars and Japanese cars but the Russian cars were shite, so Japanese cars became the default.” He paused, and focused on something inside the engine, mumbling to himself. “Now…”

“What are you doing, Watson?” Sholto asked, with an amused tone. “Are you a doctor or a mechanic?”

“You say that like there’s a difference,” Watson said, with a smile. “Either way, this particular patient won’t recover,” Watson said, as a gasket fell to pieces under his touch. “Oil seals are literally dust. Tires are good, though, in case we need them.”

Sholto shook his head. “Since when do you know about cars?

“Since, um,Year 5?” Watson said, off-hand, wiping his hands with his sweat rag. “Dad owned a body shop and thought I needed to learn something useful. That’s how he put it, anyway. More like he wanted cheap labor.”

“So you learned all this?”

_As if I had a choice…_

“Better than fighting,” Watson said, and instantly regretted it. No one needed to know about John Senior, particularly not someone like Sholto.He looked away, looked down into the engine and busied his fingers, threading the oil cap back in place with practised deftness.

Sholto hesitated. “Understood, lad,” he said quietly, and let it hang there long enough that Watson believed he really did. 

Sholto cleared his throat, and shifted, asking a bit too loudly, “Can I ask why, if you know so much about cars, why I was the one messing with the BFA’s engine this morning?”

Watson, relieved for the change in subject, answered with a shrug. “You had matters well in hand. Not like I could do any more than you were doing without a new replacement hose. Speaking of which…” he said, and yanked out the car’s heating hose, before slamming the bonnet shut. “This car may be a lost cause, but its petrol might not be.”

“That gas is at least a year old, if not two,” Sholto warned.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, can they?” Watson moved to the car’s petrol cap and opened it. “Hand me that container?”

Sholto retrieved the empty water container and handed it to him. Watson took it and dropped it just below the tank, kicking it in place with his foot as he sucked the end of the hose until the petrol came out, when he dropped it squarely into the container. Petrol flowed, and Watson shifted the hose until the fuel came out quickly. He spat and wiped at his mouth to clear the taste of petrol.

Through it all, Sholto simply watched him, with a half-smile on his face. “So you were saying about…the, ah Soviets?”

“Oh, right,” Watson said, “After the Soviets left, the Japanese cars were still popular, and the Corollas held up really well, right?” The flow of petrol slowed, and Watson removed the hose, closing the caps on both the car and on the container. “Eventually, a lot of Afghani mechanics decided to only keep Corolla parts in stock. Once that happened—”

“Everybody and their bloody uncle bought a damn Corolla,” Sholto said, finishing his sentence. 

“Exactly,” Watson said, leaning against the car.

“Clever, aren't you?” Sholto remarked, and he eased toward him.

It was, of course, a clumsy flirtation, but Watson was willing to excuse it. He licked his lower lip and looked up at Sholto, welcoming his advance with a sly smile. “About some things, I suppose. Thank you, Sir.”

“You’re most welcome, Watson,” Sholto said, and nodded to the car and the container of petrol. “Now, don’t get me wrong,” he said, pressing Watson against the sun-warmed metal of the car, his voice going low. “This is all very butch, and I appreciate that very much…but what does this automotive history lesson have to do with us getting home?” 

Watson looked up, Sholto’s sudden closeness forcing his breathing to go ragged. “Yessir, it’s just…you wished for a car this morning, and I realised that we might actually have one right here, right at our fingertips,” he lifted his hand to Sholto’s neck and pulled him down, wanting his lips on his. 

"Well, of course," Sholto murmured, “You mean given we find an actual, operational car? ”

“No, Sir. There's very little chance we'll find one operational car here. I meant, given we find enough Corollas.” Watson corrected between kisses, “Given enough Corollas, and a bit of hard work, there’s a good chance that we can Frankenstein a whole new car out of the dead ones.”

Sholto pulled back, understanding suddenly. "Because the parts are the same."  


“That's it. If we can find three Corollas of the same model, it'll just be a matter of swapping around the parts, mix and match, bad for good. Presuming there are enough working parts."

“You’re that good?”

“ _We’re_ that good, you and I. And we might not have to be that good, if it’s just a matter of replacing a few parts.”

“Watson, we don’t even have tools!”

“Oh, don’t we?” Watson lifted his chin. And jerked his head towards the back of the car. “Check the boot…”

Sholto quirked an eyebrow, and moved to the driver’s seat, engaging the release. At the back of the car, he lifted the latch.

“Under the spare tire, if we’re living right. Lift the mat.”

Sholto hefted out the tire and pulled back the felt, stepping back as he realised what he was looking at. “How on earth did you know that would be there?”

“In certain makes and models, they come standard from the factory,” Watson wandered over, doing a very bad job of trying not to appear smug. Inside the boot was a large molded square of plastic: Toyota’s Original Equipment toolkit for the Corolla, complete with spanners, pliers, screwdrivers, an assortment of levers and a jack, all designed specifically for this car by the manufacturer. “We can’t rebuild an engine with it, but we can replace a few parts. So what do you think, Sholto? Worth a shot?”

Sholto nodded his head slowly. “Given enough Corollas, Watson, we’d be fools not to try.” 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours later, after scouring AliceGhan for Corollas, they found success, managing to find three seventh generation E100 Corolla sedans: a green DX, a white DX and a blue LE. Finding them proved to be the easy part, they realised, as they pushed the three cars all the way back to their abode. Once the cars were corralled, with all three bonnets up, Watson suddenly found himself in familiar territory — triage. “The starter’s in rough shape on this one.”

“But the starter’s good on this one. Not sure about the green one. Oil and petrol are going to be a problem for all of them,” Sholto acknowledged, and nodded his head towards the third car. “The green one’s got a battery leak.”

“You take it out?”

“Yes, Mother, and I was careful,” Sholto said, with a good-natured roll of his eyes. “Blue’s battery is intact, but dead. White?”

“Dead, but not leaking.”

“This is the problem…”

“I know, I know,” Watson said, “I’ve got a plan for that. It’s a longshot, but if it works, we’ve got to leave right then, no turning off the engine, so everything else has to be in place first. Are you with me?”

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” Sholto stood up straight and stretched out his back. “Worst case scenario, we get walking. I’m willing to waste a day or so on the chance of a car.”

Watson looked up. “Sun’s setting soon,” he said,and stepped away from the white Corolla, wiping his hands on a rag. “Won’t get anything done once we lose the light.”

“I think we've got a good idea what needs to be done. Are we going with white, then?”

“I think so,” Watson said, with a sigh. “I’m nervous about the intake boots on the blue.”

“Me too. Let’s not forget to harvest as many hoses and belts as we can from the donor cars before we leave, though.”

“Good idea,” Watson said, and closed the white Corolla’s bonnet — and at first, both men thought _that_ was where the noise came from. That tinny, mechanical squeak, off in the distance.

_The Kid on the Bike…_

“Sholto!” 

“Yeah, I see him,” Sholto focused on the figure in the distance. “Not a figment, then.”

“Definitely not,” Watson confirmed. “Coming from the other way this time. Going home, I guess?”

Once again, the boy seemed completely oblivious to what was happening several hundred yards away, but Sholto and Watson took the precaustion of ducking down behind the cars anyway.

Sholto watched him, and mused. “God, he really is just a kid, isn’t he?”

“No such thing in a war, is there?”

“Not in this war, no.”

Both men stood as he passed them, and they watched him pedal away. “Well, that’s good,” Sholto said, definitively, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What’s good?”

“Worst case scenario?” Sholto said dryly, ”If this Corolla thing doesn’t work out, maybe the kid’ll let us hitch a ride back into town on this bike.” 

Watson groaned at the ludicrous image. “It’s a good thing you’re handsome, Sholto.”

Sholto shot him a look over his shoulder. “And don't you forget it…”

Watson grinned, and reached for a spanner. For what should have been one of the most stressful and desperate days of his life, all things considered, it was turning out to be a pretty damn good day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END NOTES:
> 
> \- [If tea is a priority to the British Military (and it is)](http://thedailytea.com/inspiration/british-army-tea/), [tea is a priority to Afghanis, as well](http://www.afghancultureunveiled.com/humaira-ghilzai/afghancooking/2013/10/tea-and-hospitality-in-afghanistan.html%0A);
> 
> \- **Hey vex - is all this stuff about the Afghanis and Corollas true?** You bet it is. [In 2013, the head of Kabul traffic police, General Asadullah Khan, said Corollas accounted for 80 percent of the 700,000 vehicles in Kabul](http://www.hindustantimes.com/autos/toyota-corolla-the-trusty-japanese-car-of-the-afghan-people/story-41yM5G1DhxYj91ImeGJdSM.html);
> 
> \- [What happens when cars are abandoned and left out in the elements](https://www.quora.com/Can-I-leave-a-car-for-a-year-without-driving-and-just-jump-it-a-year-later)? [They become "decrepit cars"](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Decrepit_car) \- [and shit starts to fall apart](http://www.car-forums.com/s9/t11179.html);
> 
> \- **Hey vex, do Toyota Corollas really come with that big toolkit attached?** They come with [a toolkit, yes](http://thumbs.ebaystatic.com/images/g/~QkAAOSwjDZYcUdP/s-l225.jpg), but it's not nearly as awesome as [the one that comes with](http://www.ebay.ca/itm/TOYOTA-PRADO-120-TOOL-KIT-SEPT-02-AUG-09-ORIGINAL-EQUIPMENT-INC-CASE-PLATE-/272174078370?hash=item3f5ed6d9a2:g:bX4AAOSw2ENW70S~) the [Toyota Prado](http://www.aussiemotoring.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/toyota-prado-rear-door.jpg) \-- cleverly hidden in the [rear door panel](http://i.imgur.com/SpmJf.jpg), which is what I've used as the model for the toolkit in this fic.
> 
>  
> 
> Life's not so bad for the boys in AliceGhan, is it? A place to sleep, some tea, and a project for them to work on. Whether or not their project works is yet to be told!
> 
> Hey guys? I'm SO SORRY -- I told you the next chapter would be up on **Sunday, March 26th** , but that posting will be pushed back a week (to **Sunday, April 2nd** ). It's for good news reasons - my Kiddo advanced in a school competition, unexpectedly, but still, it is delaying posting, and for that I apologize! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> <3  
> vex.


	19. Alice Ghan

Just before sunset, they left the cars and headed back to the house, filthier than either of them had been in a very long time. More than 36 hours had passed since their last bath, and all the events of those hours since had left them covered in grease, coated in dirt and still generally grungy from their adventures before they were jacked. In short, they were both in desperate want of a wash, and sand had found its way _everywher_ e.

Behind the house, Sholto rinsed out the wheelbarrow and turned it into a generous communal sink. “You go first,” he said, dumping an entire container of water into it. “I’ll go get drinking water and wash up after, so don’t dump the water.”

Watson nodded, and waited until Sholto had turned the corner to strip off his clothes, going oddly shy in response to this unexpected display of chivalry — gallantry, really. The washing up itself was also unexpectedly pleasant — this time of day, the air was temperate and the water was sunwarmed, but Watson’s washing up itself did not go off without incident, thanks to the scraps of bar soap — or what they _thought_ was bar soap —  that they’d found inside the house next door. Turns out it they were scraps of bar _laundry_ soap, and Watson howled at first wash, the harsh soap stinging his skin, but effectively cleaning it, nonetheless. Sholto’s behaviour, the privacy, the glorious feeling of being clean, even with stinging skin, there was something in the air. It felt like anticipation. It felt like getting ready for a date.

_We never did have that date…_

All that considered, Watson may have taken extra care to wash behind his ears and between his toes. He may have let the sun dry his skin before pulling on his trousers, going commando in order to wash his pants, leaving them on the window ledge to dry. He may have taken care to finger-comb his hair and finger-brush his teeth as well, and he may very well have popped a Polo mint in lieu of toothpaste. If he couldn’t shave, at least he’d smell good. Whatever care he may have taken in washing up, when he checked his reflection in the house windows as the sun set, he was satisfied with the man who looked back at him.

By the time Sholto returned from his own washing up, Watson had started dinner, rationing the meals that were left, but still coming up with a decent supper for them both.  

“Looks good,” said Sholto, his own hair still wet, and he swiped a bit of rice from the Chicken Biryani. He’d neatened the bedding in the main room and lit the tea candle from earlier, setting a mood, while Watson had warmed the MRE using a flameless ration heater.  

“Enjoy it, because tomorrow it’s Tuna, Pasta and Beans,” Watson said, dread in his voice, as he split the portion between two saucers, the ones from the tea set that Sholto had found that morning.

Sholto shrugged. “Eh, put Hot Diggity Dog sauce on anything and it’s edible.” He took the saucers and moved into the other room.

Watson started, laughing at the sound of those words coming out of Sholto’s posh mouth. “Oh, that’s brilliant, that.” Watson said, trailing behind him with the condiments  “Say it again.”

“What?” Sholto turned, confused.

Watson grinned, and bussed him on the cheek. “Come on, say it: what kind of sauce is it?”

Sholto rolled his eyes, cheeks blushing a bit. “You know precisely what sauce, Watson…”

“That may be,” Watson said, taking the saucers from his hands and placing them on the ground, “But I think I might have just found my favourite thing: you and your posh voice saying ridiculous things. Come sit next to me and I’ll let you have all the hot sauce in all the remaining MREs.” He patted the space on the carpet next to him, and Sholto complied, with a long-suffering sigh.  

“I’m beginning to gain new respect for your friends on the base,” Sholto quipped, popping open two sealed utensil bags and handing him a spoon. “Remind me to give Davis a commendation of some sort after all this is through.”

Watson took the spoon, and smiled, imagining the medic’s face at receiving a commendation just for putting up with his shit, before fully processing the implications of Sholto’s words. He narrowed his eyes. “Wait: how do you know about Davis?”

Sholto paused, mid-chew. “How do I what?”

“How do you know who my friends are on the base?”

“I work there, too, Watson. I pay attention.”

“There are more than 5000 British soldiers on that base, Major. I know you’ve read my file, but do you keep tabs on everyone like this?”

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous— I mean,” Sholto struggled for the right words, weighed his options, and opted for surrender. “I may have… noticed you, a few months back. In the hospital, when I was visiting a patient under my direct command.”

Watson had the decency to at least blush. “I’m simultaneously flattered and, well, frankly, terrified,” he grinned. “I’ve never had a stalker.”

“I’ll be the first to admit, I am a bit awful at courtship, aren’t I?” Sholto laughed.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Watson said, stirring some drink powder into his teacup full of water, “I mean, personally, I’d much rather have an MRI machine than flowers and candy...”

“Bought that cheaply, are you?”

“I wouldn’t say cheap,” Watson laughed. "Sincerely, thank you. It’s going to save a lot of lives.”

“I hope so,” Sholto said, and speared a bit of chicken with his fork. “Just don’t cuss me out when you have to queue up for an autoclave.”

“Deal,” Watson said, and truly meant it.

“Let’s seal it, then,” Sholto purred, and brought him in for a proper kiss—before pulling back abruptly. “You utter shit, where’d you find toothpaste?”

“Now who’s cussing out whom?” Watson, not even able to hold in the laugh.

“This is your senior officer, speaking!” Sholto said, and all but tackled the man. “Hand it over, Captain!”

“I don’t have any, you git!” Watson said, hands up in mock surrender. “It was the Polo mints.”

“Oh yeah?” Sholto said, and kissed him again for good measure. “So it was. Got one to spare?”

“Sure,” Watson lifted his chin, playing defiant. “For a price.”

“And that price is?”

Watson paused coyly, and ran his tongue along his bottom lip, knowing exactly what he was doing. “Dibs on the chocolate biscuit?”

“Oh, fuck off then,” Sholto said, shrugging, in spite of the visual incentive. “You can just smell my foul breath.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll lower the price.”

“Yes? To what?”

Watson leaned back, arms crossed. “How about, a dance?”

“A dance.”

“Yes, a dance.”

“Watson, there’s no music.”

“You gonna let a little thing like that stop you?”

Sholto shook his head, as if Watson were mad, “Alright, a dance,” he said, and held out his hand.

Watson rifled through his pockets and extracted the roll of mints. “Dinner first, though.”

“Of course. Dinner first, then mint, then dancing, god help me.” Sholto pocketed a mint and they both went back to their meals. “If you’re going to make me dance,” he continued, reaching into his hip pocket. He removed the small whiskey flask and placed it on the table. “I suppose it’s good I brought this.”

Watson’s eyes widened. “Oh, there is a god — how on earth did you save the whiskey?”

Sholto unscrewed the top of the whiskey and took a drag. “Slipped it into my pants. After what we left behind in the back of the ambulance, those arseholes weren’t about to frisk my privates. The rare upside of homophobia, I suppose.”

Watson howled. “God, that’s fantastic. You should have led with that, that’s worth more than a Polo mint.”

“So now I’m denied a dance?” Sholto dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin, ever the gentleman. Watson thought of a thousand different things he’d like to do to make him come undone…

“Not a chance in hell, Posh,” Watson promised, and really meant it.

The meal itself went quickly, but the conversation went on into the night, aided by the liquor. They talked about the car, about navigation, and about whether or not there was a chance in hell that the army would recover the BFA. If for no other reason than the threat to turn it into a massive bomb, they both thought an attempt should be made. If not by the army proper, perhaps even by them.

“It’d be suicide, of course,” Watson admitted. “That guy let you talk him out of murdering us once, he’s sure not to let you again.”

“Given enough fire power, I’d be willing to risk it.”

“Reckless. I like that,” Watson stood and held out his hand. “Reckless enough to dance?”

Sholto cocked a brow and accepted his hand, slipping the mint into his own mouth as he did. While both men were more than a bit in their cups by this time, and they’d certainly come to know one another’s bodies, there was still an inherent awkwardness about coming together so close, intimately close, with no music to move to. Shyly, they shifted.

“I’m presuming a, slow dance?” Sholto said, self-consciously.

Watson nodded. “Tallest leads, I’m afraid.”

“My life story in two words,” Sholto smiled, sheepishly, and pulled John to him, his arms tensed in perfect framing.

“Dancing lessons?”

“Mother insisted,” Sholto said, humming a scrap of a familiar song. “I hated it. Not because of the girls, they were lovely,” he explained, and Watson felt his hand along his spine, straightening his posture. “But grousing about it for the benefit of the other boys in the class.”

“I never learned to dance. It’s always been a bit of an excuse.”

“Excuse for…?”

“Getting close. Boys, girls…” Watson said, softly, as if there were anyone in a five mile radius who could hear them.

“Is that why you asked me to dance tonight?” Sholto said, his voice hushed as well. Breathy humming of a familiar song, and Watson couldn’t place his finger on it.

Watson bit his lip, his face unseen, over Sholto’s shoulder. “Maybe. Is that ridiculous?”

“No.” Sholto’s hand pressing for a turn. “But know you’ll never need an excuse with me. For anything.”

“Anything? That’s a pretty big promise, Major.”

“Planning on making me regret it, are you?” Sholto murmured.

Watson shook his head, honestly. “I won’t intend to. But that spotless record—“

“—is spotless because I’m cautious, yes, but also because when I am reckless, I tidy up. I’m an excellent fixer.”

Watson nodded his head slowly. “So, the trade for the MRI was—“

“—none of your business. Much like your business in Sandhurst, lad.”

Watson paused, smiled, and let Sholto spin him. “Understood. And if anyone asks?”

“They won’t.” Sholto winked. “It will appear as if planned and purchased by the British Army.”

“And the items traded to the Yanks?”

“Will similarly show up on their inventories, as official and legitimate,” Sholto said, kissing a spot just beneath Watson’s ear. “See? Spotless,” he murmured, and hummed some more.

The candle on the floor, small as it was, still managed to cast their shadows along the wall, moving figures swaying slightly, and Watson let himself be hypnotised by the surprisingly graceful silhouettes. “What is that song, anyway?” He asked, softly. “I’ve heard it before.”

“I sincerely doubt it. Old, sentimental…”

“Sing me a bit, louder so I can hear the tune properly,” insisted Watson.

Sholto humored him. “Fine. But I’m warning you, I’ve got a voice made for the army.”

“Oh, do get on with it!” Watson teased, and pulled his lips down to his own. “Go on, serenade me.”

Sholto lingered on those lips, and the pulled away. He steered them toward the northwest corner of the room, and haltingly began. “‘ _Sometimes…we stand…on the top…of a hill_ …’”

“We’ve definitely stood on enough of those this trip,” Watson wisecracked. “What happens next?”

“ _And we gaze… at the earth…and the sky_ ,” Sholto continued, undeterred. “Getting it yet?”

Watson shook his head. “No, it reads like a travelogue.”

“Hush up, it gets better at this part: _‘I turn to you and you melt in my arms’_ …”

“You’re right, it did get better.”

“Told you. ‘ _There we are, darling’_ —“

“‘ _…only you and I…’_ ” Watson blurted out the lyrics that came next, the words surfacing out of his subconscious. “I do know this song! My Mum liked it…”

“Everybody’s Mum likes Johnny Mathis,” Sholto said, and played his fingers along Watson’s waist.  “Do you know the next line? Come on, I can sing it with you. ‘ _What a moment to share…’_ ”

But by this time, they realized they’d stopped dancing altogether, both staring expectantly, and Watson didn’t really understand why it had suddenly become so difficult to breathe.

“Watson?” Sholto asked, aware that something had changed.

“No, I’m, I’m fine...it’s good.” Watson said. It wasn’t like he’d never experienced a romantic moment -- he’d had plenty of romantic moments, thank you very much, but this was different. The danger of their circumstances, how very close they’d been to the end when the BFA was jacked, and then...finding this private place, with no one else around, and staying in that place for days, it was so much. Watson tried to shake it off, this lurching wave of sentiment, this unparalleled sense of intimacy, all to no avail -  but in truth, he didn’t want to. That in and of itself was a revelation: _he didn’t want to_ . So he cleared his throat, and carried on with the song. “‘ _What a …what a moment to share…it’s…’”_ Watson sang, quietly, well aware that this wretched dinosaur of a song, this song that was suddenly gutting him, would never not remind him of this precise moment in time. “ _‘…it’s wonderful……wonderf—’_ ” he nearly managed, his voice catching in his throat.

Sholto held him close, and finished the rest for him. “ _‘…Oh, so wonderful my love.’_ ”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

They both woke before dawn the next morning, looking to grab every bit of light they had to work on the car. Sholto was up and out first, lifting the bonnets and readying the tools just as the light crept into the sky. Right on cue, the mechanical squeak of a distant bike wheel heralded their twice daily passer-by.

“Doctor Watson, you’re needed in surgery!” Sholto called, loudly enough for Watson to hear inside.

Watson emerged from the house, and started at the sight of the bike in the distance. “Jesus, Sholto, what happened to keeping out of sight? And you shouted - do you think he heard?”

“I think that kid has better things to do than keep tabs on us,” Sholto said, and tossed him the phillips-head screwdriver. “Besides, we get this car going, we’ll be out of here before he pedals home again.”

Watson reluctantly agreed, but still stared cautiously after the bike, as it slowly receded into the distance. The rest of the morning was spent removing problem parts from the white Corolla DX and salvaging the needed parts from the green and blue donors. By lunchtime, the car’s spark plugs, radiator, and alternator had all been swapped out for less damaged parts. An inventory of belts and hoses from all three cars was done, and the white car was outfitted with the best of the available options.

“Think we’re a little nervous about hoses?” Watson laughed.

“Just a little,” Sholto nodded, “But we’re still bringing the rest with us in the trunk, just in case.”

“Just in case,” Watson agreed.

They siphoned petrol from the other two cars, and drained oil as well, using them to fill the tanks in the white car, and while neither mix could be good for the car, as Watson had said, they didn’t really have much of a choice. And if the engine choked on two-year-old petrol ten miles down the road, so be it. They’d still be ten miles farther down the road…

“Okay,” said Watson, hands on his hips, staring into the bonnet, “So, we have two problems still unresolved. The first is the battery, and I’ve got a plan for that, but the effect does not last long, so we’ve got to resolve the other issue first.”

“Which is?”

Watson scratched the back of his neck and squinted. “Well, I mean, we…don’t exactly have a key, so we?”

“No, we don’t,” Sholto said, quietly, “Tell me this isn’t the first time you realized that?”

“Of course not, I just,” Watson stammered, “Of course I’ve been planning on hot-wiring the thing, I mean, obviously, but ah…”

“Let me guess: you’ve never hot-wired a car.”

“I’ve seen it in movies a million times, how hard can it be?”

Sholto shook his head. “So you were just going to execute this last minute battery fix and then just fumble your way into starting the engine? “

“I just thought—“

“No, you didn’t think,” Sholto said, wiping his hands and putting the tools carefully back into the kit. “We’ve wasted two days on this, Watson.”

Watson looked away, feeling foolish, feeling very far away from the clever man he’d felt like when he’d come up with this plan.

_I’m a complete idiot. We should have just hiked into town, we’d likely be there by now, if we managed to survive the trip on foot, if I hadn’t extended this mad holiday in AliceGhan with this ridiculous attempt at showing off, because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Manly posturing for the Action Man, so stupid, transparent, really, and now—_

“Watson, steady man, I didn’t mean to wind you up,” Sholto said, his hand suddenly on his shoulder. “I was just pulling your leg. I’ve got this.”

Watson looked at the hand, and then up to Sholto’s face. “ _You’ve_ got this? What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

And now it was Sholto’s turn to feel clever. “I’m saying that I know how to hot-wire a car. You handle the battery, I’ll take care of starting it.”

Watson paused, trying to process Sholto’s words, before settling on humor. “Oh. Very funny, Posh. Ha-bloody-ha.”

“I’m not joking,” Sholto sniffed, modestly offended. “Touch battery and ignition leads to the starter wire, a spark and it’s done. No big deal.”

Watson stared at him like he was an alien from another planet.

“Don’t act like it’s so hard to believe,” Sholto said, sharply,  “When I was in school, my rugby mates and I would routinely ‘borrow’ the headmaster’s car to go into town, just for laughs.”

Watson laughed, in spite of his shock. “Are-are you actually serious?”

“Deadly,” Sholto grinned. “So what’s more upsetting, Watson? The fact that I wasn’t a model student?” He winked and leaned in, “Or the fact that posh can be butch, too?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Watson’s rucksack — the one that he’d shoved full of MRE’s for that picnic with Sholto — had been through quite a bit since it had first come into Watson’s employ. It had been rained on, bled upon, dropped in the mud and covered in sand. It had held first aid supplies and explosives, bottles of rubbing alcohol and bottles of contraband whiskey, fireworks and firearms, antibiotics and ammunition — and while the military had made Watson a tidy man, the bottom of his pack had become his own, tiny, private rebellion over neatness. Over time, he’d allowed a collection of random things to build up in the bottom of the bag - trash mostly, needle covers and spent shells - nothing that would endanger a patient, of course, nothing that anyone would notice, or even care about, nothing useful…unless you happen to be stranded in the middle of a desert with a car battery in desperate need of a charge.

Six aspirin.

He hadn’t known how many there were in the bottom of his pack when he’d upended it yesterday, before they went looking for the Corollas, after his morning tea. He’d upended it and counted — six stray aspirin that had been swimming around in the bottom of the pack for who knows how long, waiting for their moment. He’d pulled them out, cleaned off the dirt and fuzz from them, and lined them up on the windowsill.

Six aspirin. Should be twelve, but he only had six.

_Would it still work? It would have to._

A little more than 24 hours later, Watson lined up six of the Afghani tea glasses, and carefully dropped a single aspirin into each.

“Okay, the car’s packed, even made room for two of the big water containers,”  Sholto said, opening the door abruptly, letting himself in and letting it slam behind him before noticing what Watson was doing. “Oh, hello - what’s all this about, then? Massive headache?”

Watson shook his head, and polished the back of one of the Toyota toolkit screwdrivers on his trouser leg. “Likely not massive, but with a little luck, these will, theoretically, at least, charge the car battery.”

“So this is your plan? I was wondering…” Sholto said, and gritted. “Leave it to a doctor to prescribe paracetamol for a car problem.”

“Aspirin, not paracetamol, smartarse,” Watson groused, and using  the screwdriver end, he began to grind each aspirin, in its own glass, into a fine powder. “My Dad used to tell this shaggy dog story about some lost weekend that involved him charging the battery on a 1972 Hillman Imp with 12 aspirin. Harry and I always thought it was a bullshit story, but Mum always insisted it was true.”

“Harry?”

“Sister. Sorry, her nickname throws everyone off,” Watson finished the first one and started on the second tablet. “I mean, Dad was a pretty big bullshit artist, but Mum was honest to a fault. If she said it happened - well, I figured I’d try, right?”

“12, though? I only see six glasses.”

“That’s precisely the problem. I…only have six pills.” Watson admitted, grimly. “Dad used 12, 2 for each battery cylinder.” He looked up, his expression tense as he reached for the third glass. “To be entirely honest, I’m not sure it will work with just six. Look, I know we’ve wasted two days on this, I’m sorry, I guess I should have explained all this before we made the effort. If he needed 12 for it to work, we might not—“

“Then you and I shall make it work with just six.” Sholto said, patiently cutting him off.

John threw the third tablet into the glass with a sigh. “If you say so.”

“Have a little faith, Watson.” Sholto grabbed the first two cups. “I’ll take these - finish up and meet me at the car. I have a feeling this might be a fantastic afternoon for a drive.”

Watson watched him leave, and he put the third cup down and moved on to the fourth, his lips quirking into a small smile.  
  


 

 

* * *

 

 

“Ready?”

“On your go.”

“Right,” Watson said to himself, steadying his hand as he poured the last of his cups of crushed aspirin into the battery cells. He reached for the canteen and unscrewed the cap. “Stand by, okay?”

“Standing by.”

Watson exhaled, and then began pouring water into each cylinder, closing each tight as they were filled. When he was done, he dropped the bonnet and shouted “Go, go, go!” before careening around to the open driver’s-side door. He got there in time to see Sholto’s fingers bringing the wires together and braced himself for a spark.

The spark didn’t come.

“Shit,” Sholto gritted, and reexamined the wires, making sure the battery and ignition wires were well connected before touching them to the starter wire once more.

Nothing.

_Goddammit._

Watson stepped away, ran a hand through his hair and tried to tell himself that he’d known all along it might not work.

_Six, not twelve._

_“Coming up short again, Johnny?”_

_FUCK._

Sholto put the wires down and watched Watson processing the deafening lack of sound coming from the bonnet of the Corolla. “You know, maybe we need to just…let the powder dissolve, maybe give it another minute?” Sholto asked, gently. “I can double-check the wires while we wait.”

“Your wires are fine,” Watson said, facing away from him, his hands pulling on his own neck, feeling the weight of their time on the road. “I’m sorry, Major, I should…I should never have wasted our time.”

Sholto stood. “Watson, this is hardly your fault. We tried, right? And we’ll try something else.”

“I mean, maybe if I’d doubled up the aspirin over three cells instead of spreading them out over six? Or maybe,” Watson shook his head and sniffed, his disappointment solidifying into anger, “Maybe I should’ve assumed that my Dad’s bullshit story was just barroom bullshit from the very start.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t know my Dad.”

“I know mine!” Sholto said, a bit more emphatically than he’d intended. “Okay? We all buy into the bullshit our fathers sell us, to some degree. Look at me, for god’s sake,” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his flask, and held it out to Watson. “So big deal, you bought into one possibly bullshit barroom brag. It could be a lot worse, Watson.”

“Oh yeah?” Watson accepted the flask and took a sip from its dwindling depths. “Look where we are. How exactly could things be worse?”

“Easy,” Sholto said, taking the flask back and taking a sip for himself. “You could’ve built your entire career around pleasing your father.”

Watson heard sarcasm in Sholto’s self-deprecating words, but the man’s face betrayed him, even if only for a moment. The glimpse alone was utterly heartbreaking, and Watson was at a loss, caught off-guard by the man’s momentary vulnerability.

“But, let’s give your dear old Dad one more shot, shall we?” Sholto tucked the liquor away and knelt down by the driver’s seat. “Once more for John Senior, yeah?”

John slid his eyes over at the mention of his father’s name. “How did you—“

“Your file, remember?” Sholto winked and nodded him over. “Now come on, how about you try it this time? This is a very important life skill, at any rate. Three wires, right? Battery wire’s usually red…”

And so Sholto gave Watson a hands-on lesson in hotwiring, making the point of the thing the lesson, and not that, by the time Watson put the wires together himself, the engine once again did not turn over. This fact made other facts true: they wouldn’t get home tonight, for example, that was a fact.  Also, to get home, they’d face a long, dangerous walk home, without a weapon, straight through the most dangerous region in Afghanistan - this was also a fact.

_All for lack of a battery._

They unpacked the car. Sholto made a joke about the bedding being more comfortable than army mattresses as they brought it back inside. He wasn’t wrong. Watson hefted his pack onto his shoulders, not needing to open it to know that they had a total of four MRE entrees left, along with a handful of biscuits and energy bars. Rationed out, they would make that last for 4 days, maybe five if they really tightened their belts. It should be enough.

It would have to be enough.

“Should we leave the water containers in the car?” Watson asked, reluctant to expend unnecessary energy, in light of his thoughts.

Sholto opened his mouth to answer when his attention was caught by the presence of an approaching dust cloud on the horizon. “Leave them. Get inside.”

Watson followed his gaze. “Respectfully? Not a chance in hell, Sir.” He reached down and opened the toolkit, grabbing the tire jack and handing it to Sholto while choosing the biggest spanner in the box for himself. “If you’re staying out here, so am I.”

“Idiot,” Sholto said, with an implied smile. The cloud on the horizon was moving decidedly closer and was clearly headed directly toward them. They looked at one another, then back to the approaching vehicle, and together, they began walking forward to greet their visitors, not about to wait for the fight to find them. “OK,” said Sholto, his eyes on the vehicle, “Worst case scenario, they’ve got guns, bombs, grenades, we’re dead before we even have a chance to fight.”

“Oi, you’re a cheery one, aren’t you?” Watson groaned, his eyes locked as well on the approaching danger. Close enough now to see it was decidedly not a tank or a truck, but a car.

_Better odds in a fight, at least, excluding weaponry._

Sholto flexed his fingers around the tire jack, feeling a heady rush of adrenaline. “Fine. Best case scenario, it’s bloody Sean Connery in a fully-fueled Jaguar X-Type, with leather seats.”

“That’s the spirit!” Watson said, but by that time, he could make out that the shape of the car was not Jaguar-shaped, but rather very Jeep-like.

“More likely scenario,” Sholto continued, “We meet, after a cordial ‘discussion’ —“

“—and by discussion, you mean hand-to-hand combat?”

“Clearly, yes, after a cordial ‘discussion’, we relieve them of their vehicle, making our delayed stay in AliceGhan a wholly worthwhile detour,” Sholto turned to look at Watson, “Allowing you to stop beating yourself up—

“Major!” interrupted Watson, stopping in his tracks.

“Why are you stopping?” asked Sholto, following suit.

Watson pointed at the approaching jeep and pocketed his spanner. “Look.”

The jeep was now close enough to make out the outlines of two people inside — but most importantly, it was also close enough to see the white cloth being frenetically waved by the passenger…who happened to be a very familiar-looking boy.

Sholto dropped the tire jack down to his side. “Actual scenario?” he murmured to Watson, as the car came to a stop in front of them. “Something entirely unexpected.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like the boys' alone time is done for now -- but for the better or the worse? Stay tuned! 
> 
> **END NOTES:**  
>  \- **Follower Tease** : How could I resist? [This is what they danced to](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IH0_XfxnXWI%20), if you hadn’t already sorted it out. As The Hubs pointed out, it’s a bit fast for a slow dance, but in my head, I imagine Sholto slowing it way down. Caution: I’ve hosted this earworm for DAYS now, (but I still love it)! 
> 
> \- Now you, too, can learn [how to hotwire a car](http://jalopnik.com/5871510/how-to-hotwire-a-car/)!
> 
> \- Can aspirin really jump a car battery? [This guy says yes](http://www.fortunebay.org/dead-vehicle-battery-give-it-12-aspirin-and-be-home-by-morning/), Snopes [says no](http://message.snopes.com/showthread.php?t=5441). 
> 
> \- About the dancing: In getting inspiration for the slow-dancing scene, I stumbled on [this amazing link](http://www.thedancecurrent.com/feature/liquid-leading), which advocates “Liquid Leading” for all couples, regardless of gender or orientation. While Watson and Sholto did not opt for this progressive approach, I still think it’s fantastic and would love to see more folks adopt it in real life! 
> 
>  
> 
> So, thank you for your patience in the unplanned delayed arrival of this chapter -- the Kiddo’s team did NOT make it to the “World” Championship, but made a good show of it and had a fantastic time, anyway! 
> 
> I'm sorry to report that there will be another longish wait for next chapter as well, as OMG221BConisNEXTWEEK!!!! (And trust me, no one wants my drunk ass writing anything requiring plot during Con. I'm so looking forward to seeing friends, including the lovely BakerStMel, Beta Extraordinaire! Much love, Mel!
> 
> Chapter 20 will be up **Sunday, May 7th** \-- and we are 3-4 chapters from the end here, so you won't want to miss it! Thanks as always for reading and commenting -- and if you're coming to 221BCon, please don't hesitate to say hello! You can find me hanging out with the Three Patch Podcast folks in suite 432, at the Three Patch Panel on Sunday morning, or in any one of the million panels I plan to attend this year! I'll also be attending Carnation Books' "Fic After Dark" event, Friday at midnight, and last but not least, I will be at the Jolto Meetup on Friday, sometime between 3-5pm, also in the bar, so come see me and we can toast the British Army together!
> 
> <3  
> vex.


	20. On the Road: Alice Ghan to somewhere south of Jalriz Waldek  (613km)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: Hover Notes, aka "Floating Boxes", are in use during this chapter! Whenever you see something written in a non-English language, if you hover over it with your mouse, the English translation will magically appear in a box floating beside it! BUT BE PATIENT - it takes a moment for the floating box to appear. 
> 
> Sadly, the Hover Note feature is NOT available to those viewing on tablets or mobile phones, so translations will also be posted after the End Notes.

****As the jeep slowed, Sholto and Watson had a very short amount of time to sort out any sort of strategy for dealing with the newcomers. This time was made even shorter once they realized that the white “flag” the boy was waving in surrender was actually a pair of white briefs, and judging by the size, they were likely the boy’s own underclothes.

“Interesting sort of surrender,” Watson said, lips quirking into a smile.

“If it is surrender,” warned Sholto. “Could be simply a distress signal.”

“Yes,” Watson nodded, trying not to laugh. “A desperate plea for more pants, perhaps?”

Sholto shot him a look. “Hush. Only one way to find out.”

The car came to a stop. The old man behind the wheel, clearly old enough to be the boy’s grandfather, began chattering away in Pashto non-stop, his hands immediately up. The boy rushed forward, still waving the white pants, and spoke very deliberately, in English.

“Doctor?” he asked, and pointed at Watson. “Doctor!” he said, and turned to the old man, launching into Pashto to confirm.

“Yes, I’m — I’m a doctor,” Watson confirmed, and the boy turned to his grandfather excitedly, who was already engaged in conversation with Sholto, in Pashto. For a moment, there were words everywhere, but very few he could recognize.

Watson looked to the boy - who he estimated to be ten years old, at best. “You need help?”

“Help, yes!” the boy said, repeating in English before launching into rapid-fire Pashto.

“I’m sorry, I don’t--” fumbled Watson. “I only speak English.” A quick glance showed that both the boy and his grandfather were in good health, so it had to be someone back home. Watson looked over to Sholto, and hoped he was gaining further ground with the grandfather. The man was now gesturing wildly about his waist and talking loudly, clearly relieved that Sholto could understand him. Meanwhile, the boy pulled at Watson’s hand, prompting him, urging him to get into the jeep, opening the door and gesturing for him to sit in the passenger’s seat.

“Um, Sholto?” Watson asked, and the Major held up his hand, asking the grandfather a question.

The boy looked up,  and asked insistently. “Doctor. Help?”

_Like he could say no to that…_

“Of course.” Watson said, definitively — and while it could have been a Taliban ruse, he wasn’t going to deny help to someone in need. Not to mention the fact that if the people in need happened to have anything that could potentially help them get back to the base, all the better. “Sholto, I’m getting in the car.”

“I’m right behind you,” Sholto said, and hopped into the back of the jeep as Watson closed the passenger door. As he strapped in, he explained what he’d learned to Watson. “That’s Baseer,” he said, nodding to the grandfather, and then turned to the boy “And this is Elam. His sister is in danger.”

“Sister? Was she shot? A bomb?”

“Bit trickier than that,” Sholto said with a smile, as Baseer turned the car around. “Elam here is apparently about to become an uncle.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The drive was surprisingly short, which they should have anticipated — after all, a ten-year-old bicycled that distance twice-daily — but they were still surprised when the jeep turned down a long, packed dirt path, just three or four miles after leaving Aliceghan.

A circle of Pakhti brick buildings appeared up ahead, a series of small, simple structures, and the jeep pulled to a stop. As they exited the vehicle and approached the biggest of the buildings, shielded by brick walls on all sides, Sholto and Watson spoke quietly.

“So how long has it been since you delivered a baby?”

“Not since the second year of my residency,” Watson admitted. “What’s the situation?”

“Between my limited obstetric vocabulary in Pashto, and Baseer’s seemingly limited recollection of female anatomy, your guess is as good as mine. She’s definitely pregnant, and I’m fairly certain she’s in labor, but that’s all I know.”

“Hope for the best, then,” Watson said, with resignation and picked up the pace, only to be stopped by a delegation of old men sitting in chairs by the door. They’d stood as they approached, shouting in Pashto at Baseer, who pointed at Watson and spoke with the unwavering authority that only comes from with being the eldest man in the house. There was a pause as the men considered Baseer’s words, then pointedly stepped out of Watson’s way, moving behind Baseer to follow them inside.

Watson jerked his head in their direction. “I’ve a fan club.”

“Of a sort,” Sholto explained. “Elam’s sister can only be examined by a male doctor in the presence of close male family members as chaperones.”

“Lovely.”

“Don’t grouse, they’re your insurance against being stoned for sexual assault. Consider them friends.”

“Best mates ever,” Watson said, with sarcasm. He’d read somewhere that more women die in childbirth in Afghanistan than anywhere else in the world, and reflexively wondered if his insurance would remain quite so protective should something go sideways during delivery.

Elam ran to open the door for them, clearly proud that he’d fetched a doctor. As they entered, leaving the dull yellow exterior of the house and the surrounding sand, Watson wasn’t prepared for the explosion of color and noise inside the house, the walls lined with bright floral fabric in vibrant reds and oranges, yellows and greens. Two women sat cross legged on the floor in front of an antique sewing machine, their chatter dying as the men entered. Suspicion and curiosity played out on their faces as Sholto and Watson came into view. Elam led them past a vivid green bookshelf, and then past a small room that led out onto a courtyard out back, where they could see children playing. Outside, a fire was lit, presumably to cook their midday meal. The hallway branched, and they were prompted to move into the room on the right.

An ornate wooden screen had been placed at the entrance to the room, bisecting it, and Sholto explained that this would allow him to translate for Watson without compromising the girl’s privacy. Watson bit his tongue, wondering how private any girl could feel while giving birth in front of three of her uncles, her grandfather, plus the numerous women that moved freely both in front of and behind the screen.

He tried to focus himself before moving further into the room, tried to remember everything he’d learned about obstetrics. Working in a military facility, there hadn’t been a need for it - it was Army policy to automatically send pregnant soldiers home upon discovery of their condition. Watson had never regretted this policy until this very moment, and mentally, he ran through basic obstetric procedures in his head, flexing those mental muscles in the hopes that he’d remember what was needed to diagnose and treat the patient.

On the other side of the screen, he found her - surprisingly, the quietest person in the room. She was young, perhaps 19 or 20, but not as young as she could have been, not in Afghanistan. Her face showed signs of stress, but Watson couldn’t yet tell if that stress was from illness or fear of childbirth. Her eyes went wide when he entered, and Baseer explained the situation to her, with Sholto translating for Watson’s benefit. She nodded, and then he stepped forward.

“Hello. I’m Dr. Watson, I’d like to help. May I ask your name?” He asked, making eye contact, and waited for Sholto to translate.

From behind the screen, Sholto spoke, and the girl’s eyes shifted to the screen. She smiled and nodded politely, strangely formal in this situation, and said to Watson. “Laila.”

“Laila. That’s a beautiful name,” Watson said, and looked toward the empty basin near the window. “Sholto, can you have someone fill this basin with hot water?”

Sholto translated Watson’s request, and one of the women, Laila’s mother, moved to comply, retrieving the empty basin.

Watson knelt down on a small cushion beside Laila’s mattress. “Can you tell me if you’re in any pain, Laila?”

She shook her head when Sholto translated his question, and he in turn translated her answer,  explaining that she only was in pain during contractions. In this manner, Watson learned of Laila’s pregnancy — a gestation with no prenatal care and no midwives other than her aunt, who was officially serving as her doula, and her mother, who’d just returned with the basin. Laila’s water had not yet broken, but the contractions had begun earlier in the day, at breakfast. The need for a doctor had become apparent, she said, when her Aunt Mina examined her after the contractions had begun.

“And what did Aunt Mina say?”

“Wish I knew,” Sholto said, sadly. “I’m sorry, I’ve just never heard this word before.”

Watson put his hand on Laila’s arm. “It’s okay. Let me wash up and have a look for myself, yes?”

The hot water stung his skin, and he scrubbed under his fingernails, longing for a brush and some surgical gloves and perhaps some labor tools and, he thought, while he was at it, a hospital bed with stirrups and clean sheets — but at least they were indoors, with plenty of hands to help. He let his hands air dry and sat down on the pillow once more.

“Here’s what I’m hoping, Laila: I’m hoping that your aunt overreacted, that everything is as it should be with your baby. Right? Right. Now, I do need to examine you to make sure of that. Do I have your permission to do the examination?”

As Sholto translated, Laila looked to her chaperones to confirm, but as she did, she suddenly bent and began breathing hard, her mouth forming an “O”.

Watson reached for her hand and she gripped it hard. “It’s okay, contraction, this is good,” he said, aiming for a soothing tone. “Breathe now, you’re doing great,” he said, before beginning to count to himself, under his breath, pausing only to address the man on the other side of the screen. “Sholto, find me a clock, a watch, something, anything to time these contractions.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sholto stood and quickly looked around at the wrists of the gentlemen in the room. Not finding what he needed, he bounded into the kitchen and then into the main living space, searching the walls for any sort of timepiece. Just when he was beginning to think he wouldn’t find one, he spotted an old, scratched wristwatch in one of the top nooks of the green shelving unit, beside a Pakol hat, a pocket knife, a tin of naswar snuff, a handful of loose ammunition, a battered mobile phone and an official-looking photo ID. “Ah!” he exclaimed and reached up to grab the wrist watch, only to be stopped by one of the younger men in the room.

“ _!مه یی لمس کوی _ ” he said, and moved to his side, chin lifted. “ _!دا نه ده په درنښت _ ”

Sholto paused, turned to him, and took care to adopt a diplomatic tone. “ _ دا د لیلا، د هغې د انقباضاتو د وخت _”

The young man, most likely one of Elam’s cousins, shook his head.“ _!دا هلته پاتې کیږي، دا پورې توران  _ ”

“ _ او څوک چې د؟ _”

“ _ ليلا د خاوند _”

“ _ ټول د ښه - زه ډاډه هغه به که چیرې موږ د خپل د څار څخه د خپلې مېرمنې د انقباضاتو د وخت نه پروا يم! هغه چيرته ده؟ آیا هغه دلته؟ _” Sholto’s eyes darted around, looking hopefully towards the other men in the room in hope that one of them was Turan, but they all deftly avoided his stare.

“ _!هغه مړ دی، تاسو بختې _ ” The cousin spat, pausing a moment to let that sink in before continuing, _!او هغه ښايي ځکه چې د تاسو مړ شو _ ”

Baseer rushed in from the other room, hearing raised voices, and held up his hands, settling both parties. He spoke sharply to the cousin, and carefully removed the watch from the shelf, handing it to Sholto. The cousin, quieted but not mollified, stormed out the front door, letting it slam behind him.

Sholto nodded his thanks, and together, they returned to the bedroom together.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

In their absence, Laila’s contraction had ended, and Watson was still counting to himself. “Did you find one?” he asked, between numbers.

Sholto confirmed that he had, although at Baseer’s suggestion, he’d kept the watch on his side of the screen. He set it to stopwatch mode, signalling to Watson that he could stop counting. With the contraction over, Watson could finally turn his attention to conducting a proper exam.

He started by palpating her belly over her shirt. Thirty seconds later, without even having to lift the sheet that covered Laila, he had a good idea of why he’d been called in.

With Sholto’s help, he asked Laila a few questions.

“Has the baby been kicking?”

She nodded and smiled, her face bright and her hands expressive as she spoke.

Sholto translated her words in real time, his voice rising beneath hers “…kicking and kicking and kicking until…I thought I would be bruised! Football player for sure, like Hafizullah Qadami!”

Watson, not personally familiar with Qadami’s record, ignored the reference and asked his main question. “When the baby kicks, does she feel it in her pelvis, or in her ribs?”

Sholto paused as he translated Watson’s question, his Pashto vocabulary clearly being tested by the medical terms. Concerned that the translation might not exactly be spot on, when Sholto finished speaking, Watson hovered his hands in the air — respectfully well above the body parts mentioned.

Laila, clearly understanding what her answer meant, gave a slight frown and raised her hand above her pelvis.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“That word you didn’t understand?” Watson called out to Sholto. “It means breech.”

 

_Breech birth._

_1 out of every 25 full term births will be in the breech position._

_Perinatal mortality is increased with breech presentation._

_Fetal abnormalities observed in…in…shit, I really should have paid more attention to obstetrics_ …

 

It was just as well. Focusing on the negative outcomes in this situation would not help anyone.

“Well that’s not so bad, is it?” asked Sholto, still on the other side of the screen. “Don’t they turn on their own, most times?”

“Most times, yes,” Watson said, keeping his voice calm as he answered Sholto truthfully, in English, in front of the chaperones. “But this late in the pregnancy, it might not have time.”

“So what does that mean?” Sholto asked, catching on to the pleasantness of Watson’s tone and matching it.

“It means we need to have a family meeting.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“There are dangers,” Watson explained, through Sholto.

Laila and her family, of course, hadn’t needed for the situation to be explained to them, they’d already understood what the problem was when Elam left the house with Baseer. What Watson wanted to make sure they understood, however, were the options before them. “Some breech babies can be safely delivered in the regular way. Other breech babies are in positions that are more dangerous. Without medical tools or diagnostics, I can’t know what form of breech we’re dealing with until the child actually moves farther down the birth canal. My best advice would be to take Laila to hospital and have her give birth there.”

There was an immediate outcry — from the uncles and Aunt Mina to Laila’s mother and Baseer, as well. Even Laila knitted her brow at the mention of the word “hospital”. Sholto listened, slowly working his jaw as they talked. He responded back sharply before translating for Watson, and the family did the same, in turn. Watson watched the debate fold out in front of him, a back and forth that got increasingly heated, on both sides, until it reached a head, with one of the uncles, his thin, leathery hands gesturing at Laila’s mother, at Watson, at Sholto and ultimately to Laila herself. Sholto took it all in, rubbing the back of his neck in thought, visibly upset. Bracing himself, he asked them one last question, and this time, Baseer alone answered, and he answered in English.

“No.”

The room went silent, and Sholto turned, his eyes lowered, to Watson. “They refuse to allow her to leave the house. They said if the baby dies during birth, it’s God’s will. They say if Laila dies during childbirth, that is just part of life.”

Watson processed the words, which held concepts so foreign, they didn’t even feel like English words anymore. It made him physically ill that family members, including the patient’s mother, would be so enormously cavalier about human lives. As if that weren’t enough, just beneath the surface, beneath the horror of this unfathomable familial abuse, there was also an implied distrust of doctors and of medicine itself which further turned his stomach. It made him want to go, immediately — to run out the door, to leave this dark place behind and never look back.

“We shouldn’t have come here,” Sholto said, moving to Watson’s side.

Watson opened his mouth to agree, but before he could speak, before he could grab Sholto’s hand and make a break for Alice Ghan, a noise interrupted them: the squeaky, metal-on-metal sound of a boy riding a bike just outside the window.

 _Elam._ He’d been sent outside when they’d been sent in to see Laila, and all at once, Watson understood.

“No, we most definitely _should_ have come here,” Watson said, realising now that the boy was the reason they were there. The men would not have listened to Laila herself, nor any of the women in the household, and from the hospital negotiation, it was clear that left on his own, Baseer would not have gone out of his way to save his granddaughter or her baby.  It had to have been Elam that loosened Baseer’s heartstrings, to concede to seek out the soldiers and bring a western doctor into their home. Somehow, that boy had disrupted generations of patriarchal programming, cultural oppression and a disavowal of the modern world to do the right thing - to call a doctor to save his sister, to save her child.

“Staying here is risky.” Sholto said, carefully.

Watson remained firm. “We owe it to Elam. I don’t care if the family doesn’t want us here. He does. And if no one else in his family is willing to fight for Laila, then we have to, for him. We have to help her. We have to fight for her and her baby ourselves.”

Sholto clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed, “You’re bloody right we will.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say what you will about John Watson, he’s always willing to face a challenge that he judges to be worthwhile, and Sholto totally digs it! 
> 
> As for this chapter, first, I want to apologize to anyone who actually speaks Pashto! For the first time in this fic, I needed to depict an actual, extended conversation in Pashto — and after exhausting the very few English-Pashto transliterative online translators, I ran into a wall. I ended up using Google’s NON-transliterative translator instead and I have no doubt the language I’ve presented here is flawed and embarrassingly incorrect. If any of my readers know the language, and can help me with better translations (transliterative or not), PLEASE contact me on Tumblr, I’d love your help, both for fixing this chapter and helping draft future ones.
> 
> Second, thank you, readers, for having the patience to wade through a lot of new OCs in this chapter, especially so late in the fic. I assure you, this seemingly random tangent is essential to the conclusion of the boys’ story!
> 
> And with that, I’ll leave you to your End Notes!
> 
> END NOTES:
> 
> \- How do residency programs work in the UK? I got a bit of information by looking at [this forum](https://forums.studentdoctor.net/threads/residency-training-in-united-kingdom.420683/).
> 
> \- [Pregnancy and the British Army](http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-19657646): what happens when servicewomen get knocked up in Afghanistan? 
> 
> \- The pictures [in this document](http://wilsonquarterly.com/quarterly/spring-2014-afghanistan/a-return-to-the-dark) are the models I used for the interior of Baseer’s family home. So much color inside! 
> 
> \- How important are the chaperones? [Very](http://www.nytimes.com/2013/06/14/world/asia/afghan-doctor-is-killed.html). 
> 
> \- [Childbirth and women’s health in Afghanistan, aka: do NOT have a baby in Afghanistan!](https://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2011/may/06/delivering-safe-childbirth-afghanistan)
> 
> \- Who is Hafizullah Qadami? [Apparently an awesome Afghani soccer player](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hafizullah_Qadami%20)! 
> 
> \- [Breech birth statistics](http://healthresearchfunding.org/23-breech-baby-statistics/).
> 
> \- ["Some Afghans think if a woman dies giving birth, it is part of life…”](https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/2002/09/26/safe-childbirth-not-yet-one-of-afghan-womens-rights/a63b534c-68c2-4a1e-bfb4-a3a73dc214e6/?utm_term=.d574a072471e%0A)
> 
>  
> 
> Find out what happens next in **Chapter 21** , which will post on **June 4th**! 
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting — and thanks too, to the old and new friends I caught up with at 221BCon! I’m so glad you’re here, and I’m am now thinking about all your lovely faces as I write! :-) Wonderful to see/meet you!
> 
> <3  
> vex.
> 
>  
> 
> TRANSLATIONS FOR THOSE ON TABLETS OR MOBILE DEVICES:
> 
> “Ah!” he exclaimed and reached up to grab the wrist watch, only to be stopped by one of the younger men in the room.
> 
> “!مه یی لمس کوی!” (Do not touch!) he said, and moved to his side, chin lifted. “!دا نه ده په درنښت” (That is not yours!)
> 
> Sholto paused, turned to him, and took care to adopt a diplomatic tone. “دا د لیلا، د هغې د انقباضاتو د وخت!  
> ”! (It’s for Laila, to time her contractions)
> 
> The young man, most likely one of Elam’s cousins, shook his head. “دا هلته پاتې کیږي، دا پورې توران ” (It stays there, it’s Turan’s!)
> 
> “او څوک چې د؟” (And who is that?)
> 
> “ليلا د خاوند!” (Laila’s husband.)
> 
> “ټول د ښه - زه ډاډه هغه به که چیرې موږ د خپل د څار څخه د خپلې مېرمنې د انقباضاتو د وخت نه پروا يم! هغه چيرته ده؟ آیا هغه دلته؟” (All the better - I’m sure he won’t mind if we use his watch to time his wife’s contractions! Where is he? Is he here?)
> 
> Sholto’s eyes darted around, looking hopefully towards the other men in the room in hope that one of them was Turan, but they all deftly avoided his stare.
> 
> “هغه مړ دی، تاسو بختې!” (He is dead, you idiot!) The cousin spat, pausing a moment to let that sink in before continuing. “او هغه ښايي ځکه چې د تاسو مړ شو!” (And he probably died because of you!)


	21. Somewhere South of Jalriz Waldek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussions of childbirth + an external medical procedure (nothing particularly graphic, no blood)
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: As before, Hover Notes, aka "Floating Boxes", are in use during this chapter! Whenever you see something written in a non-English language, if you hover over it with your mouse, the English translation will magically appear in a box floating beside it! BUT BE PATIENT - it takes a moment for the floating box to appear.
> 
> As always, the Hover Note feature is NOT available to those viewing on tablets or mobile phones, so translations will also be posted after the End Notes.

“We’ll need ice,” Watson said, understanding it was not a simple request. The average rural home in Afghanistan didn’t have a refrigerator, much less a freezer, so one of the uncles and the still-angry cousin were dispatched to drive to the closest local store. Even with the jeep, the closest store was still a good way off. 

Watson hoped they wouldn’t need it. The ice would be a last-ditch attempt at turning the baby, and it would only come into play if the primary effort failed. Technically, of course, the ice wouldn’t be the _last-_ ditch. The last-ditch would be to try and negotiate righting the baby’s orientation during the actual birth, which was fraught with danger. He remembered the Netherlands study--

_Head trauma_

_Cord prolapse_

_33% higher risk of injury or death versus C-section—_

  _STOP._

“When I said we were going to do this, I meant it, Sholto — you and me — so wash up.” Sholto was now on the other side of the screen, with Laila, and Watson nodded to the basin. They’d had to get permission for Sholto to make the move, and some of the men had grumbled, but after Watson had explained why, they’d really had no choice but to agree.

“The procedure requires two men’s hands,” Watson explained, catering to their biases. “Two _strong_ men’s hands, agile and skilled in the medical practice.” 

“Skilled in the medical practice?” asked Sholto, quietly, once he’d crossed behind the screen. 

“Worked, didn’t it?” Watson grinned, and handed him the soap. 

“After this, plus Edwards,” Sholto said, as he washed up, “I will expect my nurse’s certificate the moment we return to Bastion.” 

Before Watson could respond, Laila let out a sharp cry and doubled over, the beginning of another contraction. Watson coached her breathing, maintained eye contact and reassured her that she was doing fine. Sholto translated along the way, and restarted the stopwatch. As he did, in the middle of her contraction, Laila noticed the watch. 

She balked, and began venting a stream of hostilities toward Sholto in Pashto. For a second time, Baseer intervened, speaking to her quietly until she calmed down.

“What — what just happened?” Watson stepped back, helplessly, as she and Baseer spoke. 

“She noticed the watch,” Sholto said.

“That watch?”

“Yes, the only one in the house. Belongs to her husband.” Sholto intentionally placed the watch on the table, where she could see it. “Her dead husband.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly that.” Sholto turned to Watson, and spoke under his breath. “His name was Turan. There’s a sort of shrine in the other room with his things on it.”

“A shrine? Muslims don’t do shrines, do they?”

“Not that I know of. But this shrine held some things of interest.”

“Other than the watch?”

“Other than the watch.”

There was a long pause. 

“Such as?”

Sholto cut his eyes to the remaining uncles before speaking. Watson knew they had not a single word of English between them, so they were safe to speak freely. Sholto continued. “Cellphone, dunno if it works. Ammo, but no gun - might be somewhere in the house, or it might’ve been lost with the husband.”

“Shit,” Watson said, realizing the possibilities. “With a phone, we could call base, alert them about the ambulance, maybe even keep it from being turned into a bomb, save some lives.  With a gun, we could get our asses back home, and maybe even avoid getting killed in the process, save our own lives.” 

There was an even longer pause.

Sholto cleared his throat. “But. That’s not us.”

“Well, technically, it _is_ us, but we only steal from our own government,” Watson admitted. “And even then, it’s only for the greater good, right?”

“If you’re going to make a bloody Robin Hood parallel, I certainly hope you won’t be painting me as some pseudo Friar Tuck.”

“All things considered, as posh as you are,” Watson teased, “you may be more of a Maid Marian.”

“Oh, do shut up, dearest,” Sholto said, good-naturedly, and moved to Laila’s bedside.

 

The contraction subsided, and after speaking with Baseer, so did Laila’s resistance to Sholto using her watch. 

When Baseer left her side, Sholto handed the watch toc her, and showed her how to time her own contractions, pointing out which buttons to push and when. Watson watched them sort out the process together, and for a moment, it seemed that fear had left Laila’s eyes. Sholto had a way of finding that peace inside people, whether it was by being authoritative or charming or simply paternal, as he was with Laila.

“How long are we now?” Watson asked, breaking their moment, but needing to know. 

“Just at seven minutes apart, and that one lasted 52 seconds.” 

“Let’s get moving, then, this is happening sooner rather than later,” Watson said, and called him over. On a scrap piece of paper, he sketched out a drawing for Sholto’s benefit. “The procedure we’ll be doing is called ECV - External Cephalic Version. It requires some persistence and some patience. Basically with an ECV we try to move the baby into position with our hands, from the outside.”

“From the outside? That actually works?”

“About forty to seventy percent of the time, yes, but usually it’s done with the help of an ultrasound. Today, we’ll be on our own.” Watson moved to Laila’s side, and gestured for permission to lift her blouse, exposing just her belly. He placed his hand carefully just under her ribs and nodded, then pulled Sholto’s hand under his. “Feel that? How hard it is? See how if you try to wiggle it, it doesn’t move that much? That’s the baby’s head.”

Sholto nodded, and Watson continued, moving his hand lower on her belly, to just below her navel. “Now feel _this_ bump right here, and try to move it.” 

Sholto complied feeling the distention just beneath Laila’s skin. It was softer than the one before, looser, and when he tried to wiggle it, he was astounded when _the whole of the baby’s body moved with it,_ causing a ripple of movement underneath her skin, a fluttering along the center of her abdomen. 

“Oh, my word,” Sholto exclaimed, his expression shifting, laughing, suddenly joyous, and Laila giggled as he did. “There’s a baby in there. It can feel us!”

“Exactly,” Watson said, “and because it can feel us, we can encourage it to flip around.”

“With our hands?”

“With our hands.” Watson confirmed, and grabbed the drawing again, showing Sholto the placement of the hands. “One hand here, one here and we turn, firmly, and we hope the baby take the hint.”

“Will it hurt?”

“The baby? No,” Watson answered slowly. “But Laila? Yes. More discomfort than pain, from what I understand, though. It only gets painful if what we do incites a contraction, which if we’re lucky, it won’t.”

Sholto turned to Laila, to explain the procedure and to let her know what to expect. Watson hoped she wouldn’t be upset by the possibility of pain. He could tell when Sholto got to that part of the explanation when her face went serious. She was tough alright, Watson realised, when she merely nodded, and spoke a single sentence in Pashto in response. 

Watson turned to Sholto. “What’d she say?”

“She said, ’Let’s get on with it’,” Sholto replied, in something that sounded very much like admiration. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

In later years, Sholto would mark that the wonder he felt that afternoon was second only to the birth of his own children.

Laila exhaled, and Watson and Sholto stood across from each other, with Laila’s belly between them. They’d agreed to attempt a clockwise rotation, as the baby seemed slightly curved in that direction. Watson placed his hands at the baby’s head, while Sholto took the opposite end, and coordinating their movement, they began to gently push.

The uncles watched on with concern — and Laila’s Aunt Mina watched on with a clear professional curiosity. 

They baby went with the flow at first, and Watson wondered what this must have felt like to them. He imagined it feeling something like being pulled on a pool float, guided through the water, weightless, drifting. But just when it seemed too easy, the babe got stubborn. With its head nigh on to two-thirty, and his bottom at half-past eight, it said enough was enough, and tried drifting back to its previous position. 

 

They tried again.

And the baby resisted, again.

They tried firmer hands. 

Sweat broke out on Watson’s forehead.

The child remained steadfast

“You’ve got a very strong-willed child, Laila!” Watson said, and Sholto translated. “Okay, okay — let’s just give this a second.” he said, and stepped back. 

Theoretically, this was to give Laila a break. She hadn’t made a sound, but her expression gave away the presence of discomfort. Truth be told, the real reason Watson had called for a break was to give himself a moment to think.

It was quiet in the room. Tense, with the uncles and the aunt and Laila’s mother peeking in, speaking in hushed whispers. Up until this point, he hadn’t allowed himself to consider what would happen if he wasn’t successful — because as laissez-faire as the family had seemed about God’s will and things that weren’t meant to be, he wondered if they’d take that loss of child or mother just as easily if it happened at the hands of a British doctor.

Anxiety rising, Watson spoke panicky words in a reassuring tone to Sholto, so as not to alert the uncles. “Look, if this doesn’t work—“

“Give it a chance, love. You said this requires some patience.”

“Fresh out of patience. How about some results?”

“You were the one who said this was only the first stage.”

“Right, well, the ice isn’t here yet.”

“What’s the ice do, anyway?”

“Negative reinforcement,” Watson said, distractedly, “Place it up by her ribs and it, you know, makes the upper region of her belly cold, less desireable than the lower. It’s a bit of an eleventh hour effort, honestly.”

“ _Dis_ incentive, interesting,” Sholto considered, and moved back his position. “Come on, now, Captain, round two,” he said, and the tone he used wasn’t one to be argued with.  

Watson stiffened his resolve. That baby was coming, one way or another, and he’d rather exhaust every option before labor began in earnest. He turned to Laila. “Ready to try again?”

With a look of determination, she agreed, and so, they tried again.

Again, their hands went to their starting positions and began to push. Their palms pressed against the baby beneath, buffeted by layers of skin and flesh, surrounded by muscle and bone. The baby drifted for a moment, and for a few precious moments, they all experienced that thrilling feeling when the being within gave in to the beings without — but that feeling was cut short when, once again, the baby chose to resist.

Harder press now, and the baby held firm.

“Stubborn,” Sholto gritted, and he and Watson reconsidered their strategy, this time aiming for a lighter touch, a tickle, as if they were trying to cajole the child into movement. 

Still nothing.

Watson sighed. He considered the possibility that the cord was somehow preventing movement beyond a certain point, which, without a sonogram or even a stethoscope was impossible to know for sure. The child’s stubbornness could simply be self-preservation. 

So they reversed direction, anti-clockwise, just on the off-chance, but still hit a stopping point. 

_Maddening…_

Laila’s eyes darted to her mother, and the old men shuffled their feet behind them. Aunt Mina made a small, disappointed noise in her throat. Watson knew they were expecting results, and barring that, some sort of pronouncement of the situation. He chewed his lip and wracked his brain for alternate procedures. It was, perhaps, the most stressful moment in a career full of them, and just when things reached a breaking point—

 

Sholto began to sing.

 

“ _Sometimes we stand…_ ” he sang, very softly, “ _…on the top of a hill…_ ”

“Um, Major?” Watson laughed nervously, through gritted teeth. “What in the hell are you doing?”

“Incentive rather than disincentive, Captain, give it a moment.” In his next breath, he continued with the song as they attempted to further guide the baby. _“And we gaze at the earth and the sky…”_

“This is not going to work,” sing-songed Watson, as Sholto bent his head down to try and direct his voice towards her lower half. Watson shook his head. “You’re going to get us killed.”

“Perhaps. And isn’t it fun?” Sholto grinned, and turned his grin towards the very confused aunts and uncles. “ _…I turn to you and you melt in my arms_ — this would be much better if you sang with me, you know?”

“Not on your life. And this song? Of all songs?”

“It was top of mind — and Lady Gaga hardly seemed appropriate,” Sholto explained, and continued on, “ _…Here we are, Darling, only—_ “

Sholto broke off from singing as both he and Watson felt a slight flutter beneath their fingers.

“That!” Sholto said emphatically, overjoyed. “Did you feel that?”

Watson was not convinced. “Coincidence. See, it’s already stopped moving.” 

Laila, interrupted, then, her hand flailing in Sholto’s direction as she spoke a handful of sentences, her meaning clear in any language: she wanted him to continue singing.

Sholto shot Watson a triumphant look, and Watson slowly, deliberately nodded for him to continue. After all, the ice was still not here — other than their dignity, what did they have to lose?

Sholto cleared his throat and began again. “ _…Here we are, Darling, only you and I—“_

This time the baby gave an undeniable wriggle, and the whole room erupted, in cheers. Sholto and Watson felt the baby pause, the blast of noise momentarily startling it, and with a quick glance at one another, they both sang, but kept it lullabye-soft.

After two-and-a-half renditions of Johnny Mathis’ “Wonderful, Wonderful,” Laila’s baby, with the help of Watson and Sholto, had righted itself, breech-no-more - and a little over an hour after that, with little stress or concerns, the baby was born.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

The sudden presence of a new life changed the tenor of the situation immediately. The safe delivery of the child meant Sholto and Watson — previously considered dangerous and suspicious — were suddenly hailed as heroes, and the family, who just an hour earlier Watson had deemed monstrous, had suddenly morphed into loving grandparents and grand uncles, kissing the baby and murmuring sweet praises to God. The whiplash mollified Watson’s desire to flee — not that he or Sholto were given the choice to leave. The arrival of the baby boy was cause for a celebratory dinner in the courtyard, and Sholto and Watson stayed at the family’s insistence. They felt that pressing for an immediate ride back to Alice Ghan would destroy whatever good will they’d just earned for delivering the baby — and the undeniable fact was that partaking in their meal would extend their own food rations by another day. Watson worried that it was cynical to stay for that reason, but Sholto dismissed his concern. 

“Consider it payment for services rendered,” he said, and passed Watson a bowl of rice mixed with carrots and currants. “Plus, it’s considered rude to turn down food or drink when offered. Remember your culture courses.”

Watson helped himself to a ball of rice, and tried to relax and enjoy himself. The mood was certainly light, and even with the language barrier, a good time was had by all. The uncle and cousin arrived with the ice, which, now no longer needed for coaxing an infant, was used to make minty yoghurt drinks. The men sat on tablecloths laid out on the ground, while the women ate in the bedroom with Laila and the newborn, making a fuss over her and her very musical boy.

“How’d you know that would work?” Watson asked, upon returning from the bedroom, to check on the babe.

“The music?” Sholto asked, and bit into a piece of kofta wrapped in naan, “I didn’t. But when you’d mentioned disincentive, I started thinking about the twins, and what they responded to positively as infants. Thad, in particular, could be fussing and fighting, but if you sang to him, he would stare at you with such interest, he’d totally forget to resist.”

“Thad. Thaddeus?”

“Yes. And Bartholomew - Bart. Family names, of course.”

Watson tilted his head, again trying to reconcile the men Sholto appeared to be - the Action Man he’d met in the motorpool, the hedonist he became behind closed doors - with the dedicated father he clearly was. 

_Fractured_ , Watson thought, each part of his life barricaded from the other, and it made his chest hurt. “What would you sing to them?”

Sholto smiled. “Oh, anything that came to mind. ‘ _Twinkle, Twinkle_ ’, ‘ _I Wanna Hold Your Hand_ ’ — ‘ _Like A Virgin_ ’ once, until Eleanor made me stop.”

Watson laughed, imagining the exchange. “And Eleanor…is the twins’ mother?”

There was the slightest hesitation before Sholto corrected him. “Was, actually.”

Watson winced. “Oh, god, I’m sorry.”

“Yes, I am, too,” Sholto said, gently, and that was that. Baseer interrupted them then, to pull Sholto into another conversation and the moment passed. Watson had a million questions, but now was not the time. Presuming this relationship — whatever “this” was — would continue in Bastion, there would be plenty of time for this discussion.

_Presuming it continues…_

The party continued on into the night. Watson and Sholto filled their bellies and drank endless cups of cardamom tea. They were each given a traditional dusmaloona — small handkerchiefs of dried fruits, a gift for guests who come to the home to congratulate the family on the baby’s birth. About that time, the dancing began in earnest, and just as Watson was about ask Sholto if they should expect to stay the night, Elam appeared beside them. 

Before they could greet him, however, he put a finger to his lips and gestured for them to follow him.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Elam led them around to the front of the house, allowing them to slip past the kitchen area into the hallway that led to Laila’s room. 

Hushed, hurried whispers from Sholto to Elam went unanswered.

“Is the kid trying to get us killed?” Watson asked.

Sholto flexed his jaw. “Something’s up, he won’t say what.”

“Shit,” Watson responded, and immediately assumed something was wrong with the baby, Laila, or both. He gave a worried glance to Sholto, and they both suddenly appreciated the child’s discretion. 

Elam opened the door, and ushered them quickly inside.

“ _ لیلا _” From the respectful side of the screen, Sholto called out to Laila in a quiet whisper, “ _ سميږي؟ _”

“Better than alright, Major,” came the voice from the other side, speaking in lightly-accented English. 

Sholto and Watson, stunned, first looked at one another, and then at Elam. He grinned, and proceeded to her side of the screen, flopping down onto a nearby cushion. He offered no explanation, but motioned for them to join him.

Cautiously, Sholto and Watson moved past the screen, to find Laila in bed with her baby, bundled in additional scarves to keep out the evening chill. “Well come on,” she said, playfully, “Don’t just stand there gaping.”

The two men did as she said, and moved beyond the screen. 

“You…speak English?” Watson marveled.

“Don’t be angry, Dr. Watson,” she said. “The deception was unavoidable.” 

“I’m not angry,” Watson replied, his hands on his hips. “I’m just gobsmacked.” 

“We both are, “ Sholto said, joining in at last. “How on earth did you learn?”

“Turan,” She said proudly. “He’d learned from a friend, someone at school, and all during our courtship, he taught me words, even though he wasn’t supposed to.”

“Nothing more motivating than learning something forbidden,” Sholto murmured. “And that’s where Elam learned the words he spoke to us?”

“Yes,” she said, “But he’s not to tell where he learned them. Grandfather thinks he learned it from the radio.” She turned to the boy then, and spoke briefly in Pashto, praising him until he blushed. 

“Oh, god, of course — it was you!” Watson said, everything suddenly coming into focus. “Elam told you about us, in Alice Ghan, and when Aunt Mina found something wrong with the baby, you told Elam to come get us.”

This time, it was Laila’s turn to blush. “I was afraid. I knew hospital, should it come to that, would be out of the question, and Mina means well, but she’s no doctor. And the fact that you were there, just a few miles away, well, I felt it couldn’t have been a coincidence. The moment Elam told me about you, I knew that you had been placed there, in that place and in this time for a reason. I felt like it was—“

“God’s will.” Sholto said, finishing her sentence. 

“Exactly that,” she nodded, and stared down at the baby in her arms. “And I was right. You saved him. My precious, perfect boy. The image of his father.”

Watson still marveling at her English, sat at the foot of the bed. ”You were very brave.”

She dismissed the notion with a shrug. “I was afraid.”

“You think one precludes the other?”  Sholto asked, with a laugh. “Every soldier knows that fear and bravery go hand in hand.”

_…in Sangin, hands stained to the elbows with blood, standing on that rooftop, Rokhan’s defection to the Taliban, the gun pointed at him, the unexpected betrayal…_

“It’s true,” Watson said, drifting back, shaking off long-dead ghosts. “Every act of bravery begins with fear. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

Perhaps sensing Watson’s momentary slip into that dark place, the baby began to fuss, and Laila shifted, bounced him gently in her arms. “Ssh, little man,” she said, and looked nervously to the door, then to Sholto and Watson. “I don’t want to get you in trouble, but I needed to speak with you, privately, and give you my thanks.”

Sholto shook his head. “Laila, you don’t have to thank—“

“Yes, I really do,” she said, and with the baby in one arm, she reached beneath the bed, found a small cloth bag and brought it into her lap. “You know, one of the best things about knowing a language others don’t know you know is that you learn a lot. People speak unguardedly when they think you don’t understand.”

Watson and Sholto both froze. What had they said in front of her, when they thought no one could understand? 

Watson stammered “Laila, if we said anything untoward, anything—“

“ _‘Oh, do shut up, dearest,’_ ” she quoted, and smiled broadly, as both soldiers remembered their own exchange. “No apology is needed. I was the listener, and because I listened, I know some things about the two of you.”

Sholto looked to Watson, a spike of fear running between the both of them. 

_What did we say?_

“For instance,” she continued, and removed an item from the bag, placing it on her lap. “I know you need a mobile phone.”

_Fucking hell…_

There on the blanket was Turan’s scratched-up mobile, the object they’d discussed stealing. Out loud. In English. In front of Laila. 

“And I assure you, it does, in fact, work,” she confirmed, with a knowing smirk.

“Your comprehension is to be admired,” Sholto said, quick to respond. “But Laila, you have to understand — we’ve been stranded for days, and we’re just trying to get home. If you understood our conversation, you know we specifically chose not to steal anything, and we haven’t.”

“Clearly,” Laila said, with a shrug. “If you’d wanted to steal it, you would have. What I want to know about is this bomb. Whose bomb is it?”

“The Taliban. They stole our ambulance,” Watson explained, “and said they were going to turn it into a bomb.”

“Monstrous,” She said, and held her child tighter. “Ambulances are meant to save lives, not take them.” She fiddled with the phone as she spoke. “And you can really get rid of the bomb with just this?”

Sholto nodded his head. “I believe we can, with the help of our government and a handful of satellites.” 

“Then do it. Take it. Save lives.” She pushed it towards Sholto.

“You’re sure?”

“Promise me,” she said. “Save lives.”

Sholto looked at Watson, who nodded sharply. “We promise you.”

“Good,” She nodded, contentedly, “And while your promise is important, I’m afraid it means nothing if you get yourselves killed first. So, you’ll also need this,” she said, and withdrew a pistol from the bag, placing it on the blanket. 

Watson huffed out a breath, not believing their luck. A seemingly well-maintained Tokarev TT-33, a Russian semi-auto. He reached out to take it, but—

“Not yet,” she said, holding out her hand. “This comes with strings as well.”

Watson obeyed and pulled his hand back. 

“The Taliban have taken my country,” she explained, “They came into the village we used to live in and beat my friend, just for wearing white shoes. They killed my father, so they might take his cattle.”

Sholto cleared his throat. “And Turan?”

“Turan was a different case,” She said, and her expression shifted, then, became softer, the wound clearly fresher than the others. “He was a policeman, you know? Killed during a shoot-out between the Taliban and the Americans,” she said, levelling her voice. “Regardless of what my cousin thinks, no one actually knows whose bullet killed him, just that it happened quickly.” 

The baby nestled into Laila’s neck, and she placed her free hand on the back of his head, supportive, protective, the motion comforting both mother and child. “So. You may have Turan’s gun, but I need your word that you’ll only use it in self-defense, and - and this is important - only against the Taliban.”

“You have our word,” Watson said, and she pressed the gun into his hand. He pocketed it quickly. “And we’ll return this, all of it. The gun, the phone.”

“Keep them. You’ve already given me Turan’s most important keepsake,” she said, looking down at the baby in her arms, rapt. “But I do have one last request: I’d like to know the names of the men who saved my life, and the life of my son.”

Sholto and Watson looked at one another, and Watson cleared his throat. “We didn’t necessarily save anyone. For all we know, Laila, the baby would’ve turned on his own, and you would have been fine without us.”

“Humor your patient, Doctor,” she scolded, charmingly. “And make it your full name, if you please.”

“Alright, well, I’m Captain John Hamish Watson,” he said, cringing a bit at his own middle name.

“Hamish?” Sholto grinned. 

“Shut up, Sholto…” Watson snarled.

“That’s Major James Christopher Sholto to you, lad,” Sholto said, smartly.

“John and James,” Laila said, musing. “Why don’t you ever call each other by your first names?”

“To be honest, it’s taken us this long just to get past our ranks.” Watson said, shoving a hand in his free pocket, and looking shyly at Sholto. 

“Well, John and James,” Laila said again, placing a finger in the middle of the infant’s right palm, it paling under the child’s surprisingly tight grip. “I’d like you both to formally meet my son. His official baby naming ceremony won’t be for another two days, but I have picked out his name —would you like to hear?”

“Very much so,” Sholto said.

“Well then, I’d like to introduce you both to Turan Jan,” Laila beamed at the both of them, “Turan, of course, after his father and Jan after — well, the two of you. J for John, J for James, J for Jan.”

For the second time in this conversation, Watson found himself utterly speechless. 

Laila continued. “Even if no one else ever knows the origin of his name, I wanted you to.”

“We’re honored, Laila,” Sholto said. “He’s a beautiful boy. _ دواړه _”

She quirked a smile. “And the same to you.”

“Keep this close. Call us if you need help.” Watson wrote his name and the base’s number on the back of the paper scrap he’d used to draw the ECV diagram, and handed it to her. “And also? Thank you for not calling him Hamish.”

She laughed, turned her eyes to Elam, and they spoke a few words in Pashto. “Elam will help get you back into the party unnoticed — it’s late, so they’ll expect you to stay the night, presuming you won’t mind sleeping in the barn? They can drive you back to Alice Ghan in the morning.”

“That’s fine,” Watson said. “And you should rest. It’s very late.”

After some discussion, it was decided that both the phone and the gun should be returned to the bag they came from and secreted into the jeep by Elam in the morning, so they wouldn’t be detected in the soldiers pockets by the rest of the family.  Soon after, Elam ushered them towards the door. 

“One last thing?” Laila said, stopping them as they walked to the door.

Sholto and Watson turned back to her. “Yes?” Sholto asked.

“Of the two of you, it’s John, not James, that’s the Maid Marian,” she said, smiling mischievously. “Also, the barn is not soundproof, so I suggest you two keep it down.”

Laila winked then, and laughed sweetly — just as Sholto shot Watson a victorious look.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END NOTES:
> 
> \- [Real life testimonials](https://community.babycenter.com/post/a34117675/breech_baby_turning_after_labor_starts) about the use of ice packs in turning breech babies.  
> \- Do typical Afghan families have refrigerators in their homes? [Nope](https://books.google.com/books?id=-o28CwAAQBAJ&pg=PA2&lpg=PA2&dq=do+Afghanistan+families+have+refrigerators?&source=bl&ots=Y9S80gBLQ5&sig=ZoiQjnb7T2hMGQVupi1UOAykZI8&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiPz8zClszTAhXD2SYKHWzGDtgQ6AEIJzAA#v=onepage&q=do%20Afghanistan%20families%20have%20refrigerators%3F&f=false%20).  
> \- “The Netherlands Study” refers to the [Term Breech Trial](http://www.mdedge.com/obgmanagement/article/87679/obstetrics/dutch-study-clarifies-risk-attempted-vaginal-birth-breech%0A) in 2000.  
> \- [External Cephalic Version](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/External_cephalic_version) is, in fact, a real thing.  
> \- [Safe Childbirth Not Yet One of Afghan Womens’ Rights](https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/2002/09/26/safe-childbirth-not-yet-one-of-afghan-womens-rights/a63b534c-68c2-4a1e-bfb4-a3a73dc214e6/?utm_term=.39bb4aa42cdc).  
> \- I wonder if Sholto [remembered this](http://www.parents.com/pregnancy/giving-birth/labor-and-delivery/timing-contractions/) from the twins birth.  
> \- Can you really tell the position of a baby from the outside? [Yes](https://www.naturalbirthandbabycare.com/how-can-i-tell-the-position-of-my-baby).  
> \- Do British people really say "anti-clockwise" instead of "counter-clockwise"? [Yes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_British_terms_not_widely_used_in_t)!  
> \- [Afghanistan traditions to welcome a new baby](http://afghanwatch.blogspot.com/2014/02/traditions-that-welcome-afghan-baby.html%22).  
> \- [Food Customs at Ceremonial Occasions in Afghanistan](http://www.everyculture.com/A-Bo/Afghanistan.html).  
> \- [Behaviors and Etiquette in Afghanistan: Food & Dining](http://uwf.edu/atcdev/Afghanistan/Behaviors/Lesson5FoodAndDining.html%0A%20).  
> \- [The "minty yoghurt drink" was Doogh](http://www.cookwithmanali.com/dough-afghan-yogurt-drink/), and I can imagine it would be a wonderful drink for a very warm climate!  
> \- [Turan’s gun](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TT_pistol%0A).  
> \- [The Structure of Afghan names](http://www.zoorna.org/papers/AfghanNames-MP090315-Released_10-4604.pdf%20%0A): The “Jan” part of Turan Jan is called a “subordinate” name. Females are rarely given subordinate names.  
> \- Don’t tell Sholto, but singing to a breech baby to get it to move is considered an [Old Wives’ (and Major’s) Tale](https://www.todaysparent.com/pregnancy/7-ways-to-turn-a-breech-baby/). 
> 
>  
> 
> The boys now have nearly everything they need to make their way home - and their journey back will begin next chapter, which will post on **Sunday, July 2nd**!
> 
> <3  
> vex.
> 
>  
> 
> TRANSLATIONS FOR THOSE ON TABLETS OR MOBILE DEVICES:
> 
> "Elam opened the door, and ushered them quickly inside.  
>    
> “لیلا!” (Laila!) From the respectful side of the screen, Sholto called out to Laila in a quiet whisper, “آیا هرڅه سميږي؟“ (Is everything alright?)"
> 
>  
> 
> AND
> 
>  
> 
> Laila continued. “Even if no one else ever knows the origin of his name, I wanted you to.”  
>    
> “We’re honored, Laila,” Sholto said. “He’s a beautiful boy. خدای تاسو دواړه.” (God bless you both).  
>    
> She quirked a smile. “And the same to you.”


	22. On the Road: Somewhere South of Jalriz Waldek to Nirkh (32km)

“This is a cliche,” started Watson, even as he pulled off Sholto’s t-shirt.

Sholto nodded in agreement, even as he kissed him, even as he tugged at Watson’s hair and pulled at Watson's zip. “Ridiculous,” he said, “how could anyone respect themselves after attempting an actual—“

“Roll in the hay,” they said, in unison, and Watson continued. “I know. Plus, we might scare the livestock…

“No scaring livestock,” Sholto cautioned, “No scaring people either. You heard Laila. Thin walls.”

“So, are you saying we should just go to sleep?”

Sholto responded with a bite against Watson’s jugular notch, a bite so hard, and against such delicate skin, that it made Watson hiss and buck against him. Sholto’s wide palm immediately splayed against the small of his back, keeping him in place. Watson answered back with a jerk at Sholto’s waistband and found that after several days of rationing, the Major’s trousers were now loose enough to slip over his hips without unbuttoning.

“That’s handy,” Watson purred, and Sholto’s hand gripped the back of his neck, just as Watson’s hand gripped around Sholto’s cock, both men in sync, clasping tight and tighter.

“You shameless thing,” Sholto growled, and opened Watson’s trousers without letting go of his neck. “Grabbing at what you want without even saying please…”

Watson felt his knees go weak, and didn’t protest a bit when Sholto dropped him, rather unceremoniously, onto the hay. Instead, he maintained his grip on Sholto’s cock and coerced him down with him, followed by a mutual moment of awkwardness as they struggled out of their boots, their trousers, their pants and their socks. The hay dug into their bare flesh — a discomfort no one ever talked about in the cliche — but they both chose to ignore it as Watson let his hand roll against Sholto’s heavy balls, enjoying the weight of them in his hand and enjoying the expression on Sholto’s face as he did. Sholto eased his leg over Watson’s and moved above him, his long body enveloping Watson’s. For a long moment, there was nothing but soft tongues and gentle hands stroking dear places, stiff cocks pressing against one another, pulling quiet gasps from both of their throats. Sholto lost his patience first, firmly moving John’s right arm up and away from his cock with his left, pressing it above Watson’s head, holding it there and letting the action settle.

“John,” he said, quietly, testing the name on his tongue.

And Watson — suddenly, _John_ —arched his brow, accepting the challenge. “James?”

“Interesting how that changes things,” Sholto — no, _James_ — murmured, and slowly ran his stubbled jaw across John’s chest. “A name’s just a name, after all.”

“Hm, no, you were right to begin with. It means something,” John said, contentedly watching James nuzzle into his chest. “Major to Sholto, Sholto to James.”

“Shedding layers?” James mused.

“I feel lighter, don’t you?”

“I feel—“ James shifted onto his side, and sighed, his eyes focused on the beams that supported the barn roof. “I feel like we’re caught in the space between breaths.”

John rolled over to face him, brows knit, resisting the urge to ask him if he thought that was a good thing. Right now, John knew that he, himself, wanted “whatever they were” to continue into the next breath and beyond, but even he couldn’t predict how he’d feel once the layers returned, once James inevitably relegated “whatever they were” to happening strictly behind closed doors.  

“Personally, I feel like—“ John swiped his tongue over his lips, and chose instead to sidestep the issue altogether. “Well, I mean, right now, I’d sell my left tit for a condom.”

James turned, and quirked a smile. “Don’t sell your left tit short. It’s worth at least a whole box.”

John grinned. “And even that wouldn’t last us very long,” he said, and let the suspended conversation still hang in the air. “In lieu of that,” he said, pushing past it. “Hand me my t-shirt, will you?”

James reached for the clump of clothes nearest them on the floor and handed the t-shirt to John, who preceded to form the hay into a pillow, and then arranged the shirt over it. “I haven’t done this to completion, without penetration, since I was a teenager.” he said, with a bit of a smirk.

James slowly caught on, and allowed a sly smile to surface. “Oh, you were a naughty, snogging teenager, weren’t you? You realise, between the two of us, that t-shirt is doomed.”

“Fuck the t-shirt, literally. I’ll gladly go without one.”

“And I’ll gladly welcome your sacrifice,” James said, unabashedly lewd.

John jerked his head towards the pillow. “Age before beauty?”

James considered it, and then bent, carefully positioning himself over the t-shirt-covered bolster. John’s eyes followed the line of his corded muscular thighs, how they gave way to that taut arse that just days ago had managed to take all of John. _To the bloody hilt_ , and now, with the positioning of the hay, lifting his hips, opening him just so—

 

_fucking hell_

 

—it was all John could do to remind himself that—

 

_NO condom, NO penetration_

 

—and even though he wanted that hidden clench again, so desperately—

“John,” James said, looking over his shoulder, breathless, expectant.

John was on him then, quickly, any thought of taking this slow and sweet ending with his opening salvo: a bite to James’ shoulder, and his hand wrapping around the man’s mouth. He was less concerned about controlling James’ noise than he was about setting a tone, and James groaned through his fingers, arching into John’s hands, even as John pulled his hips higher and indelicately spit into his cleft. He spit into his own hands and worked it over his eager cock, readying himself, hoping there would be enough friction to—

 

_f _uu_ uuuuck, who was he kidding? _

 

—he was already halfway there at first thrust, his erection bouncing at first touch against James’ vulnerable flesh, slipping between his cheeks, cresting against the small of his back and then sliding back again. As he did, James gave a quiet gasp, and then—

_oh, god_

—shifted beneath him, tightening his arse cheeks as far around his too-large cock as they would go. John moved against the pull, engaging it, riding the curve of his cleft up onto his back, over and over, and he knew he wasn’t going to have to worry about the spit being slick enough because jesus, a few more strokes and he’d definitely be leaking, and it wouldn’t take that much more for him to be done.

Somewhere along the way, John’s hand had slipped off James’ mouth, and James was left panting, fists clenching in the hay, working his arse backwards, in time with John’s stroking. “Come on, John,” he hissed, driving the tempo, eager, “Cum for me, on me, with that gorgeous fucking cock.”

His words, along with this perpetual motion, the steady, rhythmic slip of John’s cock along James’ split, was hypnotic, arresting, and John remembered this feeling from when he was young — lack of a condom translating simple frottage into an exercise in defiance, taking things just up to the line, daring himself to actually cross it, but never actually crossing. It was a teenaged belligerence, John knew, and perversely, he did everything in his power to keep it that way: first pistoning fast and hard against James’ flesh, then slowing, suddenly, teasing, allowing his weighty cock to linger as it dragged along his hole, only to go back to the fast slide, their bodies soon slick with sweat. And through it all, James giving back as good as he got, meeting his thrusts, and never made a move to caution him, to stop him, to scold him, to tell him he was being reckless, or edging too close to the line.

 

_Was it because Sholto - James - was reckless himself?_

_Or was it simply because he…trusted him?_  

 

The very thought sent him surging forward. The thought that a man he’d known only a handful of days could trust him like that, well it was—

 

_—freeing, impossible, fantastic—_

 

—and when the inevitable climax crashed down on John (and more literally, on James, along his spine), John bit his own lip to keep from crying out, but his groans were still a bit louder than they should have been.

From down below, the cows complained.

James laughed. “I think they’re jealous.

John disengaged, and caught his breath, easing back onto his knees to allow room for James to turn around. “They should be. That was heaven,” John said, and closed his eyes, giving a good post-orgasmic shudder.

James leaned in and kissed him, his lips lingering. John responded by pulling him closer, his hand searching out James’ cock and found him still erect. “Still hard. I thought for sure you’d cum when I did,” he murmured.

“Denial can be its own reward,” James said, grinding his cock into John’s hand. “Prolonging it is half the fun sometimes, you know.”

“Are you saying I’m too quick?”

“Well, I certainly encouraged your quickness.” Reluctantly, James pulled away, and plucked the t-shirt from the hay, turning it over. He looked up, slyly. “But you see, now I can claim my prize.”

Realisation sparked within John. “You brilliant, entitled bitch,” he said, with utter delight. “You rushed me to the finish, didn’t you? So it could be your turn? You know, I’d’ve let you go first, if you’d said something, I just thought—“

“Stop thinking. I’m…difficult to predict. And right this moment, I’m right where I want to be,” James said, giving himself a long, decadent stroke. “So you should get where I want you to be, too.”

John paused, and felt his own pulse quicken, his eyes reflexively going half-lidded. Given his refractory period, he knew his physical arousal would be along eventually, but his mental arousal, fuck if that wasn’t right on time. “Yes, Sir,” he said, face flushing, and bent over the makeshift pillow.

Sholto leaned in close. “Don’t you dare go to sleep on me, soldier,” he hummed in John’s ear, delightfully menacing.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” purred John. “Just so long as you understand this action in no way makes me more of a Maid Marian.”

“A chav like you?” James teased, “Not hardly.” He dragged spit-covered fingers along John’s arse, slowly, feeling the sweat and spit combine, and sliding his cock into that space. “Not a naughty, frotting teenager like you,” he said, exhaling, letting the words take effect and John was gone, pitched deep into subspace, and into his own memory.

_The coarse texture of Derek’s mother’s basement couch, harsh against his cheek, against his rutting cock, because it’s not gay if it doesn’t go in, everybody knows that._

John closed his eyes, remembering how nervous he’d been, terrified they'd be found out. Considering his actual father, he thanked god James wasn’t actually old enough to kick up Daddy issues — but oh, how it thrilled him to imagine James at 25 or even 30 when John was 15, a decadent, albeit oddly respectable, mentor. If only he’d happened to walk into the right public bathroom at the right time, he would’ve been prime for the plucking, in the stalls, or right there up against the sinks—

_…naughty, frotting teenager…_

Eventually, James collapsed against him, both of them glossy with sweat and spit and cum.  He held him close, back to front, and their arms both tightened around each other. When their breath returned, amid happy sighs, their minds turned to tomorrow.

“The mobile,” John said. “Bastion or Bagram?”

“Bastion first, to let them know we’re alive, Bagram next, to find the ambulance.”

“Fair enough,” John breathed, “but I’m not sure how anyone is gonna find the BFA. I mean, they’ve got days on us, James, they could be anywhere. Hell, they could easily be in Pakistan by now.”

“Won’t matter,” James said smugly. “We’ll still find it.”

John rolled over onto his side. “You’re awfully confident.”

“Always,” James threw his arm around John’s shoulder and moved to pull him close.

“No,” John said, holding him at arm’s length. “You know something that I don’t know, don’t you?”

James tried his best to look innocent, and then endeavored to kiss him, until the cows once again resumed their complaints.

 

 

 

* * *

 

The “space between breaths” ended the next morning, with time shifting into high-speed the moment Elam opened the barn doors and shouted a buoyant, if heavily accented, “Good Morning!”

They were off and running then, into the back of the jeep, cradling the small cloth bag that secretly held the phone and the Tokarev, along with a generous camouflage of leftover bread and kofta, added to justify the bundle to Baseer — not that the food would go to waste. Alice Ghan quickly bloomed on the horizon, the familiar shape of the homes shimmering in the heat, along with the seemingly endless brightly-colored water containers dotting its landscape. It wasn’t home, but it was strangely comforting, although that may have only been in light of the fact that they knew they’d soon be leaving.

Because Baseer had found his cables.

“Jumper cables,” James explained in the early morning light. It had become apparent that while John had enjoyed his post-procedure rush at the party, James had been laying the foundation for their return home. After all, there was no need to fret about building a better battery, or even begging a ride to Kabul when a perfectly fine jeep with a perfectly fine battery could give your Frankensteined Corolla a much-needed jump start.

As they pulled up to their temporary home in the desert, John hopped out and quickly switched the aspirined-battery in the Corolla with the only other remaining, non-leaking car battery. He and Baseer sorted out the jump while Elam and James went into the house to retrieve the few items they’d put back inside after the aspirin experiment had failed. They walked out precisely in time for the Corolla’s engine to, miraculously, turn over.

From the doorway, James cheered, and pointed at John. “Was that you?” he asked, rakishly slinging the pack over his shoulder. “Did you, Captain John Watson, hotwire that car?”

“Fu—I mean, you bet I did!” John said, triumphantly, reflexively censoring his language at the last moment. Not that Elam would know a rude word from a term of endearment, but then again, you never knew what boys could pick up “from the radio.”

James stashed the pack in the backseat, with the spare water and hoses and every ounce of petrol they’d siphoned from the decrepit cars, and then clapped John on the back. “Well done, John!”

“Well, I did have a good teacher.”

“Absolutely, the best!” James grinned, and turned to Baseer. “ _ ستاسو د میلمه عبدالبصير موږ نه شو کولای چې تاسو پوره مننه. ستاسو او ستاسو د کورنۍ د برکت. _”

Baseer bowed his head, his expression heartfelt. “ _ خدای تاسو او ستاسو د ټولو تاسو او ډاکټر واټسن زما د کورنۍ لپاره کار لپاره د برکت. د خوندي سفر، زما ملګری. _”

While they were talking, John reached into the car and withdrew one of the last remaining biscuit packets from the backpack and handed it to Elam. “Thank you,” John said slowly, not sure how much the lad would even understand, so he kept it simple. “You are a good brother. Well done, you.”

The boy squinted in the sun. “Well done, you.” He echoed, and John wasn’t certain if he were merely repeating back the words said to him, or if there was intent behind the words. He chose to believe there was. Either way, though, it was clear the biscuits were appreciated — and as he clamored into the jeep with Baseer, James and John waved to the jeep from inside the Corolla, and followed them out to the main road, leading north into Kabul.

 

 

 

* * *

 

“Right. It’s a British Army Field Ambulance,” John spoke into the phone, as the Corolla bounced over the unpaved road. “Land Rover, right…a Defender 130…”

James’ brow furrowed as he drove. “Is that the American COs office?”

John nodded to him as he responded to a question on the phone. “Yes, when we last saw them, they were headed north, from just west of Kabul.”

“I need the phone,” James said, impatiently, holding out his hand.

John shushed him, determined to finish his conversation. “Yes, sir…yes. So you have what you need? Excellent. Yes, Sir, it’s in everyone’s best interest that the vehicle be found and prevented from becoming an asset to the enemy. Yes, Sir…thank you, Sir. Please let us know if we can help.”

He pushed the button on the phone to end the call and handed the phone to James. “Right, so Bastion has a team moving into Kabul, on their way to meet up with us and bring us home. The Yanks have initiated recovery of the ambulance. Everything’s in place, we’re saved. Who on earth could you possibly be calling?”

“The Yanks,” James said, as if the answer were obvious, and after a brief hesitation, he said “Motorpool, please,” into the phone.

“Motorpool?” And while John’s tone may have sounded frustrated, the truth was, he couldn’t deny the spark of a thrill that ignited inside.

The trip, it seemed, wasn’t over just yet.

 

 

 

* * *

 

As they talked, James dutifully drove towards Kabul, in the direction of the drink shop with the curious name of “Iceland,” using the mobile’s GPS map to guide them. This was their designated meet-up location, where they'd connect with the British soldiers that were to bring them home — but James had absolutely no plans to actually meet them there.

“Let me get this straight,” John said, pinching that place at the bridge of his nose where the tension built up. “I just spent the last twenty minutes coordinating this meeting and you don’t want to go back to base?”

“i’m a soldier, John,” James grimaced as the sun’s glare through the windshield, and pulled down the car’s visor. “So are you. Yes, we could go back to the base right now and carry on as before, but we have an opportunity here to make a difference.”

“So do the boys from Bagram. And they have the tanks and weapons and manpower needed to track them down quickly, before the bomb is made,” John argued. “We have one gun and a jacked-up Corolla, for god’s sake.”

“You want this as bad as I do.” James said, distractedly, and fiddled with the buttons on the phone.

“Of course I do, you arse,” John said, with a bit of a snarl. “Hey, can you stop dicking around with that mobile? I’m struggling to see how we can do any better than the Yanks. For all we know, they could already have them in custody.”

“They don’t.” James said, peering at the mobile. “Shit,” he said, and made a sudden turn south.

“Right,” John scoffed. “And you know this how?”

James held up the mobile screen for John to see. “Because they’re on the move.”

On the screen, a pulsing red dot. John took the device, and looked up, his mouth tight. “Pull over. Right now.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

James kept the engine running.

“How?” John asked.

“The Comms upgrade I bought—“

“—which you had the Yanks _hack_ —“

“—hacked, whatever, all that matters is that because of it, the BFA is equipped with music and with navigational system upgrade. I mean, I was only in it for entertainment on the ride home.” James explained. “But, and here’s the thing: the GPS upgrade had a tracking feature.”

“You’re saying we can track the ambulance?”

James nodded, altogether too pleased with himself.

John was too confused to be excited. “When did you even engage it? Before we left Bagram?”

He shook his head.

“When, then?”

James sighed, and ran a hand along the back of his own neck. “I engaged it when I went to get your gun.”

He remembered, then — John remembered the voices outside of the ambulance, the pounding on the metal walls, the ice water in his veins the moment he’d realised he’d made the rookie mistake of leaving his gun in the cab while they’d gotten busy in the back, leaving himself wholly unarmed.  

 

 _"I can see it, right in the wheel well. I’ve got this.”_

_"Goddammit, let me, it was my mistake!"_

_"What? And let you have all the fun?”_

 

John’s breath hitched, with a sudden understanding. “So that’s why you made me stay back? So you could engage the tracker?”

“Well, it takes some of the chivalry out of it,” James admitted, with a self-effacing smile, “but yes, that was one of the reasons.”

John shook his head. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“No such thing,” beamed James, who opened the door. “I’m off for a slash — might be a long time before we stop again, so…”

John watched him exit and walk a discreet distance away from the car. The car engine continued to hum, and would continue for as long as they kept it full of petrol. He thought about what he’d just learned about those last moments in the BFA and crossed his arms, memories of that night forming around him, images, sounds, the series of events unfolding. One thing leading to another, cause and effect, until—wait.

“Hey!” John propelled himself out of the car. “Hey!” he called out to James, who was just finishing up.

He turned, calling over his shoulder. “On my way. Patience,” he said, zipping up.

“Patience, hell!” John said, and charged toward him, his realisation driving him forward. “You tell me, and you tell me now: did you engage the tracker before or after you reached for the gun?”

And just like that, it all went quiet. Oh, the Corolla continued to hum behind them, but for a moment, there were no words.

James was the first to break. “Look, if i’d gone for the gun first—“

“—Oh my god—“

“No, listen to me: if I’d gone for the gun first, there would have been no guarantee that we would’ve won out. Two against four are not odds I’m comfortable with.”

John, working his jaw. “I’ve fought worse.”

“But I knew we wouldn’t _need_ to fight if we could give them a temporary victory, and then we could circle back around later to reclaim the vehicle.”

“A temporary victory? James, we were very nearly executed on the spot!”

James bristled. “I thought they would just take the ambulance and go. Clearly, I never expected they’d know about the explosion. And we both overlooked the bloody condom packet.”

“You didn’t trust me to fight.”

“That’s not true.”

“You bet our survival against our ability to fight. You chose to negotiate rather than fight.  Clearly you didn’t think I was up for it.” John stood up, abruptly and pointed a finger accusingly at James. “You’ve questioned my military ability from the very start, from the first bloody hour of our time on the road together. Admit it: you think I’m a shit soldier.”

“John, that’s a damn lie! You couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Then why? Why else would you bet against us in battle?”

“I wasn’t betting against us—“

“—fine, against me—“

“No, you idiot, I was betting against ME.” James’ raised voice echoed in the empty valley, and he pushed away from the car.

John turned to him, annoyed. “Well, you’re not even trying now,” he said. “I’m supposed to believe that you think you’re a shit soldier? You. Major-fucking-Action-Man-Sholto himself? Yeah, I’m not buying it, not a chance.”

Sholto didn’t reply, just kicked at the sand at his feet and squinted in the sun. “I’m going to be 50 in a year, can you imagine that?” Sholto said, arms crossed, looking out over the sand. “After that, I’m on borrowed time, when it comes to the military. They’ll force me out at 55. That’s as old as you can be in this man’s army.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, James. This is about age?” John asked, trying to follow. “Don’t be ridiculous -  you’re fitter than me!”

“Not about being fit, John!” he snapped, and then sighed, trying to make himself clear. “Look, I’ve been a soldier since I was 21. Before, if you count military school. That’s close to thirty years on the job. Started in the Falklands, moved on to the Troubles, then the Gulf War. Bosnia. After that, I was promoted and effectively desked. It wasn’t about fighting anymore, it was about diplomacy. Policy. Negotiation. And I was bloody good at it. Am…good at it.”

“That doesn’t make you any less of a soldier,” John argued. “Seriously, what does all that even mean?”

“It means I haven’t shot a weapon, outside of a shooting range, in over a decade.” James confessed. “There’s your Action Man, John. When the ambulance was attacked, I was afraid that I would choke in battle. And I did.”

He looked so hobbled then, this descendant of more than a century of decorated, fighting Sholtos. In a family like that, John imagined, defeat would simply not be an option, failure would be assumed genetically impossible, and cowardice? Well, John expected that cowardice would be considered a mortal sin. If Sholto had actually legitimately choked, it had to have thrown everything he knew about himself into question. John suddenly imagined Alice Ghan and the experience of the last few days through a very different lens.

“That’s not a fair conclusion, James,” he countered. “The whole thing was fucked up. It was more of a personal assault than a battle.”

“It doesn’t matter. I choked, John,” Sholto said, his voice louder. “He got to the gun first.”

“Only because you chose to engage the tracker first.”

“Which I chose to do because I am a bloody coward.”

“Bollocks!” John replied, and proceeded to pace the edge of the road. “If you were a real coward, we’d be halfway to the meet-up by now.”

James looked away and took a drag from the canteen, allowing John the time he needed to work it out on his own.

“Oh, christ,” John grimaced, his voice going caustic. “So that’s what this is? You want to singlehandedly take down the carjackers to prove you’re not a coward, is that it? One last hurrah before they put you out to pasture?”

“Not _single_ handedly, no,” James said, pointedly.

Watson’s temper flared, “Right, of course. You’re risking my safety in this madness as well. Brilliant.”

James looked up and nodded, his expression shifting from shameful to shameless. “That’s about the long and short of it, yes.”

John shoved his hands in his pockets, seemingly seething, and flexed his jaw. “Do you even have a plan?”

“Improvisation is a beautiful thing,” James offered, with a sportive smile. He moved to John’s side, and quietly cajoled, “Come on, John - you know you can’t resist it.”

And for one long moment, even John didn’t know if he was going to hit him or not...

 

 

 

* * *

 

...that indecision didn’t last for long.

“Fucking right I can’t,” John growled, and kissed him instead. If James wanted to charge into the darkness, John  sure as shit wasn’t going to let him do it alone. Besides, even without a military legacy of his own, John was aching to get his hands on the bloody bastards who’d stolen their truck and left them to die. The fact that their actions had spun James this hard was just one more reason to see this thing through to the end. 

Back at the car, John moved to the driver’s side door and stood his ground. “I am with you, but hell if I’m going to ride shotgun on this one. You navigate. Take the gun.”

James cocked his head, uncertainty playing on his face. “You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said, sincerely. “If either of us is shooting a gun today, it’s gonna to be you, James.” John smiled, and pressed the Tokorev into his hand. James’ fingers wrapped around it, and he nodded, pocketing it carefully.

In the car, in their new places, James looked over at John, breathlessly. “Goddamn, we’re actually doing this, aren’t we?”

“It’s lunacy.”

“It’s suicide.”

“Yep,” John winked, “And they’re never gonna know what hit ’em.” John floored it then, kicking up sand and smoke as both men laughed and cheered, punching their fists out of the windows victoriously, chasing the horizon. 

A reckoning was coming.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES**
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> Buckle up, y’all...only two chapters to go!
> 
> \- [Iceland is a real drinks shop in Kabul](https://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g660089-d5412986-Reviews-Iceland-Kabul_Kabul_Province.html). Any connection to the British Army, or any other military force, is entirely fictional - I just liked the look of the place. 
> 
> \- The things you learn when you write fic! I didn’t realize that there have been [10 British Military Campaigns since the end of the Cold War](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/defence/11126016/10-British-military-campaigns-since-the-end-of-the-Cold-War.html). 
> 
> \- Sholto is right - in 2008, a full career with the British Army was still as little as 18 years in duration, although soldiers were able to file for extensions to stay on, up to age 55. That was when you were shown the door. [On a bittersweet note for Sholto, the rules changed in 2012, upping the max age to 60](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/politics/9442343/Armed-services-to-serve-longer-but-still-earn-smaller-pension.html) \- so, had he not gotten into his bit of trouble, he could’ve stayed on for a full five years longer. 
> 
> 8/2 UPDATE: I promised to post on **Sunday, August 6th** , but I'm sooo not ready (but y'all, when it is ready, it's gonna be so good!). So let me push this back a week, to **Sunday, August 13th** and it'll get even better! 
> 
> I want to take a moment to thank all of you for your kindness to this fic -- your readership, your comments and your fic recs - even on Three-Patch, Moni (and Lesley, Bree & Cookie, too), thank you! The Jolto ship may not be the biggest ship in fandom, but it's passionate and vocal and tremendously generous to authors and artists!
> 
> ILY guys!  
> <3  
> vex.


	23. On The Road: Nirkh to Nangarhar (223km)

**16:10**

John reached the bank of brush that stood at the edge of the last field. It was perfect - just tall enough to conceal him and just dense enough to delay the guards. His heart pounded, adrenaline and exertion a winning combination, and he couldn’t wait to see the look on James’ face when all this went off exactly as planned.

Watching the movements of the guards, he waited until the exact right moment, assembled the components quickly and then threw it as far as he could before running in the opposite direction.

_Brilliant._

 

 

* * *

 

**11:38**

“So the enemy carjacks an ambulance,” James said. “What do they do with their prize?”

John and James bounced across rutted roads, windows down, tracking the ambulance on the GPS, which was currently headed north. Following this path, there was a small chance that they’d actually cross paths with the team meant to rescue them, not that they’d be recognized in the Corolla. Now that they’d willingly turned their own rescue mission into a battle, however, they had more important things to worry about, like what the hell the insurgents were doing with their BFA.

John shrugged. “They already said. They want to turn it into a bomb.”

“But we saw them, John — none of them struck me as likely ballistics experts, did they you?”

John considered the trio of arseholes who’d nearly killed them, but before he could answer, a ping sounded on the mobile.

James lifted the phone, enlarged the picture. “They’ve changed direction again. Looks like they’re now heading due east.”

“Fuck. Towards Pakistan.”

“Not necessarily,” James’ fingers flew over the mobile. “If they were going to take it out of the country, they would have done it on Day One, not Day Four.” He looked up, squinting through the dusty windshield, and pointed at a dirt path ahead. “Turn here.”

“Got it,” John said, and pulled a hard left onto the less-defined path, a light wind kicking up sand off in the distance. “So if you don’t think they’re going to Pakistan, and you don’t think they can weaponize it themselves, what are they doing? Joyriding?”

It wasn’t a flippant question. Hadn’t he, himself, called it a caravan, just a few days ago? And hadn’t they both found joy in the back of it?

James took a more practical view. “It’s an asset, it’s a commodity. They’re not going to waste it on a joyride.”

“Then why bother driving all over the bloody country?” John pulled at his still-damp t-shirt, hastily rinsed and wrung out prior to leaving in Alice Ghan. He’d put it on for lack of a more efficient way to dry it, and he had to admit, he was a bit disappointed that James hadn’t made more lascivious comments. Then again, to be fair, they’d both been a bit distracted by the chase. “They were going north when they left us, when we first started tracking them they were driving south, and now east? What’s the point?”

“I don’t know.” James looked away from the mobile for the first time in a long time, and stared out the window. “Unless…”

“What?”  

“They could be shopping it out,” He said, turning to John. “Perhaps laying the groundwork for some kind of bidding war?”

When John had first arrived in Afghanistan, he’d imagined the enemy as a singular force: one organization of unified bad guys, but he quickly found out that wasn’t the case.  Davis had been the one to sort him out, over drinks, early-on.

“Mate, the Taliban’s not this one massive thing,” he’d explained. “It’s a network. More than that, it’s a _network_ of networks. The southern network is mostly religious, the eastern network is mostly mujahideen, some networks just want the westerners out of the country, others are more radical, some are Pro-Iranian and some, believe it or not, are actually moderate.”

“So, we’re fighting, like a half a dozen groups?”

“More than,” Davis said, and topped off his cup. “That’s why we’re screwed, man. Shite’s disorganized chaos. It’s like fighting an octopus, but every arm wants something different.”

So, why _wouldn’t_ the carjackers take the BFA on some kind of _Antiques Roadshow_ tour? “Is it really worth all that much, though?” John questioned. “I mean, it’s just something to blow up, right?”

“Unless it can be used as a bargaining chip, somehow.” James offered, his hand distractedly shuffling the mobile in his hand. “The question is, what are they bargaining for? What do they want? What do they need?”

“A skingraft? A better role model? A personal trainer?” John snorted, remembering Scarface, the Teenager and the Big Guy. He remembered, too, the glee they’d taken when they’d found the discarded packets, the mad shouting, the cruelty on their faces, the barrels of their guns shining in the moonlight.

“You’re forgetting about their leader,” James said.

As if John could forget The Passenger, the wiry figure who’d called James “Dead Man”, who’d railed against them, gesturing to bullet holes and who’d looked at them, casually, as he ordered their execution. “What about him?”

“He’s youngish, capable, hungry. And while his team is well in place, they weren’t exactly elite,” James said and directed John off the packed dirt and onto a highway, heading east, chasing the pulsing red dot on the screen. “He could be ready for a bit of an upgrade, a little more power?”

“Well, if this is some kind of power grab, he’s gonna need more than just a shot-up ambulance,”

John said, keenly, “He’s also going to have to get rid of that liability.”

“The boy? That’s a given,” James nodded, and the mobile pinged again.

“Changing direction again?” John asked, exasperated.

“No,” James said, ”Stopping.”

“Where?” It was the third time in as many hours that the ambulance had stopped, and John wondered whether they would be able to catch up with it before it went on the move again — and if they did catch up, how on earth they could ever hope to gain the upper hand? James had said they’d improvise. Lovely, but against how many, with what and where? If they’d crossed the border into Pakistan, as British soldiers, would the “hot pursuit” rule apply, or would they be bound by whatever the Paki laws were? He did not relish the thought of being thrown into a Pakistani prison.

“Looks like,” James said, enlarging the map on the mobile, “Nangarhar.”

_So, not Pakistan, or not yet, anyway._

“Can’t be the Taliban, then,” John kept his eyes on the road ahead, and tried to remember the details he’d read about in the paper at Christmas, a battle U.S. forces won against the Taliban. “The Tora Bora Front was decimated last year. Nangarhar was supposed to be this big win for the Yanks.“

“Doesn’t mean they got rid of the Taliban altogether, John,” James said, with a shake of his head, “it just means they went away.”

John shook his head, not following. “ _Where_ , though?”

“Where people always go when they want to disappear,” James said. “Underground. And no matter when they resurface, it’s always too soon.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

**16:11**

_…too soon…_

The bloody thing went off early and everything went haywire. John scrambled for the poppy fields for some sense of cover, but never made it. A rabble of angry voices rose and footsteps followed him. They flattened him to the ground before he even realized how many of them there were.

 _“_ Too soon!” He shouted, as the three men lifted him to his feet, “It went off too soon!” He cried out, as loud as his voice would carry, his words most decidedly not meant for his attackers, who yelled to one another in a language he didn’t understand, and who most likely had no interest in understanding him. For all they knew, he was just another infidel begging for his life.

Which, considering what happened next, is perhaps what he should have done.

 

 

 

* * *

 

**13:42**

Nangarhar had been a good three hours away when the pulsing GPS dot that stood for the BFA stopped, so even with only necessary stops to refill petrol, it was still early afternoon before they even got close. Outside, the terrain turned green again, with palm trees lining the road, and the smell of oranges eventually filling the air, orange trees dotting the landscape.

“We’ll pass Jalalabad in the next 20 minutes,” James put the phone down and reached into the bag, to the food Elam had used to camouflage the gifts from Laila. “Kofta?”

He held some naan-wrapped kofta out for John, the cumin, coriander and cinnamon-spiced meat smelling and tasting delicious after nothing but MREs for days. Together, they finished off the food, and after lunch, James recounted the ammunition in the bag, and re-connected the phone to charge.

John meditated on the road ahead. The plan was, there would be no plan. Not until the ambulance stayed put long enough for them to devise a strategy based on its location. Until then, the goal was to simply stay as nimble as they could, use whatever came along to their benefit and pray the Corolla would stay in one piece long enough to reach their destination. So far, so good.

But that didn’t stop John from considering what they’d brought with them on the trip, the things they already had in the car that could be used to their advantage in a fight — and he began spitballing ideas as he drove. “Okay…we have loads of water, some MREs, a ton of belts and hoses….not much we can do there. Although, we do have several containers of petrol. _And_ a lighter.”

“Which will be entirely helpful if we happen across a flamethrower between here and there,” James laughed, and settled back into his chair. “Honestly, John, if it makes you feel better to walk into this armed, you can have the gun.”

“No way,” John said adamantly, swerving around one of the few other cars on the road. “Your fight, your gun, Major. I’m just sorting out our resources. Oh — the toolkit! Tyre iron and spanners and screwdrivers, that’s good, that’s very good.”

They passed the airport, and James directed John to turn onto Jalalabad Bypass. As he did, he placed his hand on John’s thigh, and eyed him fondly. Normally, that would’ve been John’s cue for a smartarse comment or lascivious remark, but with the windows down and the wind in their hair, with full bellies and the sun shining down on them both, John just smiled, enjoying the moment, stretching out his own hand to James’ face.

“You’re impossibly handsome, you know?” John stroked the stubble that had been slowly turning into a proper beard on James’ cheek. “I mean it. In every way.”

Seeming to relish the touch, James closed his eyes, remarking, “When we get back to the base, I’m contacting Trauma Risk Management to have you sorted.”

John tugged on James’ beard. “Accept a compliment, you ruddy bastard.”

James opened his eyes. “I will if you will.”

“Always negotiating, aren’t you?”

James laughed and looked away, but he did not remove his hand.

 

 

 

* * *

 

**16:14**

_…hands…_

John spun, struggling against the hands that held him, every step, fighting, and desperately wanting to look to the BFA, to make sure one of them, at least, was _safe_ , but willing himself not to give the game away—

_DON’T look. Just fucking FIGHT—_

He was shoved forward, outnumbered, their shouts in his ears, close and fierce, their faces angry and their hands rough, fingers tightening around his wrists, lashing them together. He didn’t stop even then, even when he could only kick and bite, blood rushing in his ears, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Even then he fought back, resisting with every ounce of his being and willing himself to remember these men, their faces, any little detail that could possibly save him—

_Three men, two AKs, still slung on their backs, one pistol, not yet drawn, one with the yellow scarf unarmed? The tall one was clearly enjoying the scrimmage, the one with the grey beard the loudest, yellow scarf grinning behind._

They were relishing this, clearly, and the fact that they weren’t even stressed enough to pull their weapons was, honestly, insulting — but fuck it, John thought, he’d take the insult if it bought him half a second to get away.

He didn’t actually begin to panic until the black bag was pulled over his head.

 

 

 

* * *

 

**15:36**

The orange trees gave way to a sea of familiar red flowers the farther east they traveled — and the farther east they traveled, the closer they got to the glowing red dot on the mobile screen.

Every Englishman knows the poppy, if only for Remembrance. Similarly, every Bastion soldier knows a poppy field when they see one - as one of the few designated agricultural regions in Afghanistan, Lashkar Gah was rife with them, and many missions involved marches through the edges of them. The greenest of new squaddies would inevitably ask if it was safe to walk through the fields, presuming the narcotic effect would cause them to fall asleep, like in “The Wizard of Oz”. Their question would be answered — usually with a laugh and a smack to the head — and for weeks thereafter, they’d be referred to as ‘Dorothy’ by their section mates - but from that point on, they’d always remember that opium must be extracted from pods before it can have a sedating effect.

_The things you learn in this war…_

“Well, they can’t have parked it in the middle of a bloody poppy field, for god’s sake!” John said, negotiating a particularly tight bend in the road.

“And yet it appears they have,” James said, pointedly, and held up the phone. “Stop the car.”

“We’re almost there!”

“Precisely my point,” James said, and pointed out his window. “If we get any closer, they’ll know we’re here.”

There, at some distance ahead, beyond the crest of a hill and surrounded by fields of blooming poppies, stood a walled compound, containing a series of single-storey buildings. And parked off to the side, immediately out front? A very familiar, very battered BFA.

They pulled the car over, keeping well behind the crest of the hill, and left the engine running, keeping their options open until they sorted out what was to come. Together, James and John edged up towards the side of the hill to peer at the compound ahead.

“There you are, my darling,” John said, flushed in their success at finding the ambulance. He turned to James. “They’re not even trying to hide it, are they? You’d think they’d have at least brought it inside the walls!”

James shrugged. “Why should they? No one’s going to steal from them.”

“It’s just a farmhouse.”

“With more than farmers inside, you and I both know that,” James counted the number of guards stationed around the perimeter.  “Plus three likely well-armed guards outside.”

“It’s the only building for miles, does that mean all of these fields belong to it?”

“Likely, yes. Either that or the farmers are enlisted, hired freelance.”

All those fields, and just one structure. John tried to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun, trying to get a bead on the guard’s weaponry, but they were too far away. “Can you imagine the money inside those walls?” John asked.

“In product, at the very least.” James confirmed, “But let’s focus on the prize, shall we?”

“Which is?” John already knew the answer, but wanted to remind James, the war time equivalent of getting him fired up before the big game.

James shot him a glance that said he knew exactly why he’d asked, but he carried on anyway. “Stealing back the ambulance and rousting out the cretins who stole it, of course.”

“Not sure you have enough bullets, for all four of them and the guards.”

“No one’s dying, John. We take what’s rightfully ours. If the cretins choose to engage—

“—which they will!”

“IF they choose to engage, we engage, but only then.”

John shook his head, pointing at James. “Those men judged us. They, they condemned us. They left us for dead and they had the gall to call not executing us on the spot ‘a generous negotiation’. Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t kill them.”

“Justice, not vengeance, John.” James pulled back from the edge of the hill, turning back to the car. “If we give into vengeance, we’re no better than they are.”

John was frustrated, but knew James was right, damn it — so instead, he followed James back to the car, and rummaged through the back seat for a weapon, finding the tyre iron. But it wasn’t until he came across the leftover MRE packets that he started to smile...

Together, they sketched out plans in the dirt, arguing over the best path.

“We _have_ to split,” John rallied, pointing out the three x’s that James had marked on the diagram, representing the three guards who patrolled the outside of the compound. “No one can approach the BFA without being made, not with this lot watching.”

“So we do it together.”

“Together is suicide! Look, I know you can hotwire the bloody thing in a heartbeat, James, that’s not the issue. You’ve got to get there first, don’t you? So,” He jabbed his finger towards the southwest corner of the compound. “I set up a distraction here and lure these guys as far away from the ambulance as possible, to give you the time you need. You get it running, swoop in, pick me up, and we’re out of there!”

“No,” James said, firmly, “I’m not putting you in the line of fire. Not a chance. You know how to hotwire a car, now — how about you do it and I’ll be the distraction?”

John scoffed. “I’ve hotwired a single car - one - you’ve done dozens, plus, you do it in, like, a quarter of the time it takes me. You’re the obvious choice.”

“John, I simply can’t allow you to be the distraction.”

“I won’t be,” John promised, taking a moment to be inwardly pleased at James’ concern. “ _I_ won’t be the distraction, Posh, I’ll just be _setting up_ the distraction. By the time it goes off, I’ll be well on my way back to the ambulance, ready to hitch a ride.”

James narrowed his eyes. “So, what’s the distraction, then?”

John reached behind him, pulled out one of the remaining MRE dinners, and dropped it on the dirt in front of James.

James looked at the bag and then looked at John. “You can’t possibly be hungry. We both just ate our weight in naan and kofta.”

“Don’t be thick.” John pointed emphatically at the bag. “This. This is our distraction.”

“That’s…dinner.”

“I can’t believe you, of all people, have never done this,” John said, and kissed him quick before ripping open the bag. “I’ve actually had to care for more than one injury related to this very amusement.” With quickness, he removed all the elements from the bag, and laid them out on the hood of the still-running Corolla. “Okay, so, ordinary British Army-issue MRE, right? Take away the food, and all the little extras inside and you’re left with a flameless ration heater, this little packet. Inside this packet is an envelope containing iron, magnesium, and salt.”

John waited for James to catch on, but he simply squinted his eyes and shook his head. “So?”

“Right,” John explained, filing away the fact that Action Men don’t necessarily have to know things about chemistry. “Iron, magnesium & salt - add water, and the water acts as a catalyst to make hydrogen. Make _that_ happen in a closed container, and the heat and hydrogen gas cause the container to expand, and boom.”

James eyed him carefully. “Big boom, or little boom?”

“Little boom. But loud enough to send those men running.”

James picked up the packet, spun it around in his hands. “You’ve seen this work?”

“Oh, yeah. Lads do it all the time on base. One thought he’d blown his foot off because the idiot kicked it just as it went off.”

“It’s that powerful?”

John shook his head. “Hardly — but I did spend a good hour picking tiny plastic bottle shards out of his foot. Apparently he’d decided to kick it whilst only wearing socks.”

“Idiot is right.”

John shrugged it off. “Eh, it gave him a story. And us a way of distracting the Taliban, so it’s not all bad.”

James agreed, reluctantly, to the plan. He also agreed to sacrificing their one and only canteen to serve as the container for the MRE bomb to blow. John filled it up with water from the containers in the back seat and capped it, screwing the top on tight. He then set about removing the iron, magnesium and salt from all the remaining MRE packets and collecting it all in one of their sweat rags, which had, thankfully, dried out during the car trip. He knotted the bundle closed and shoved it into his pocket.

Meanwhile, James loaded and reloaded the gun with the nine rounds that Laila had left them, apparently all the ammunition that had been on that shelf. John understood from the practiced way he did it that it was a muscle memory exercise, a tried and true way of appeasing nerves -- and while John knew that James was hoping to get in and get out without incident, for James’ sake he hoped the man would at least get a chance to fire a round off. It had nothing to do with revenge, he just wanted to help James to break out of his deskbound mindset, to remind himself that he was still a thoroughly capable soldier.

They divided up what remained of their personal items in the cart. Since James had the gun, John took the phone, splitting the items Laila had given them. James pocketed the multitool, to strip the wires, and reclaimed his lighter. Together, they pushed the car to the edge of the furthest poppy field, to the corner where its blossoms were just high enough to camouflage it. Once in place, John ducked behind the wheel to kill the engine — and knowing it wouldn’t start again without another jump, he hesitated, just a moment, before turning it off.

_So long Frankenstein Corolla, we hardly knew ye._

And so began the trudge - or crawl really, considering how low to the ground the plants were in some places. The men stayed within arms reach of one another, and spoke in hand gestures, moving stealthily through the fields. They kept their eyes on the compound ahead, and tried to stay aware of their immediate surroundings. It was, after all, fully afternoon - there were no shadows to hide in, and farmers were likely to still be out in their fields, tending to their very valuable crops. At a distance, they could hear the engine of a farm machine at work, and John didn’t know why he was so surprised. 90% of the world’s heroin was produced in Afghanistan, after all, and that meant that under all these bright blooms was a business worth billions. Billion dollar concerns routinely invested in technology, even in places like Afghanistan.

As John considered this, James fingers grasped at his shirt, jerking him abruptly to turn with him, keeping them both out of reach of the spray of an activated pesticide sprinkler.

_Of course. Focus._

The fields felt endless. On his knees, John had never been more physically intimate with this particular plant.  As a physician, of course, John knew quite well its benefits  - morphine, codeine - but also its scourges, opium and heroin, both of which started off as medicine, too. Upon arriving in Afghanistan, he’d expected more addicts within the ranks, considering the base’s location, but he’d been pleasantly surprised by the relatively infrequent nature of his encounters with military junkies. Not many and those that did surface were easily dealt with, promptly removed from service, shipped home and sent to Combat Stress for treatment. Done and done.

From his current perspective, though, on the ground, hands grasping among the roots, he thought about all the money made on the backs of those seeking comfort, essentially…and, well, it seemed less easy and less done. The people he’d sent home had been targets of a multibillion-dollar business, likely _this precise_ arm of the multibillion dollar business, and John couldn’t help but get angry. He felt the urge to take it out on the flowers themselves, to pull them out by their roots, to rip them up and let them die, even though he knew there’d be no point. He could pull all day and only impact the tiniest amount of profit this organisation sucked out of the earth on any given day.  

“John, look—“ James whispered, and they were three fields away. The BFA was right there, a beautiful, bullet-riddled sight for sore eyes. With such motivation, the next field went by quickly, and it wasn’t long before, per their sketched out map, they’d reached the place where the two men would part. James would carry on forward to the ambulance, while John would cut left, head towards the southwest corner, to the place where he’d plant the bomb. Once it went off, James would move in, and get the BFA started.

“Do you have everything?” James asked, voice low.

John reached for the canteen at his hip and for the rag in his pocket, and nodded. “How about you?”

James lifted his shirt, revealing the gun shoved into his trousers. “Safety’s off.”

Adrenaline shot through John, the feeling of going into battle oddly normal now. “See you on the other side, alright?”

James gave a single nod, but in the same instant, he reached out, grabbing John’s arm, and pulling him close. “Wait.”

John was irritated by the gesture, his inner soldier telling him it was go time, but he was only irritated as long as it took for him to see James’ expression. All at once, John felt like his heart would suddenly swell and burst. The hope, fear and regret that played out on James’ face made it clear that John actually _mattered_ to him — and it knocked him back, catching John so off-guard, all he could do was stammer. “J-James, I’m, it’s going to be—“

“You listen to me,” James said, cutting him off, still holding him fast. “You drop that bloody noisemaker and then you run like a bat out of hell, you understand?”

“Of course.” John’s voice was tight. It was a simple exercise, in and out, not exactly an ordinary mission, but in theory, at least, a fairly simple one. “It’s going to be fine, James.”

“I mean it,” hissed James, hoarsely, insistently. “Don’t you dare be a hero. You listen for that engine and you run toward it.”

“I promise,” John said, and the desperate look on James’ face pulled at John’s chest so strong it made it difficult to breathe. “I swear to you. I will be right there.” He reached for his jaw, pulled him close, and pressed his mouth tight to James, kissing him fiercely before scrambling across the field. The memory of that kiss lingered, a kiss that tasted like cumin, coriander and…

 

 

 

* * *

 

**16:16**

_…cinnamon…_

The sweet memory of that last kiss.

 _…_ **_last_ ** _kiss…_

He shook off the thought, willing it not to be, making promises to every god he could name that they’d both get out of this alive. They were moving him, roughly, and because the bag didn’t completely blind him — he could see below the roughly cut edge — he could see that they were moving him along the outer wall of the compound, towards the compound gate, towards the goddamn BFA.

_James…_

The gate swung open, and John felt like it was his last chance, last fight, time to move — an impulse that was instantly defused the by the feel of the barrel of a gun pressed tightly against the back of his head. He froze—

_don’t you dare be a hero_

—and then complied, having no choice but to allow himself be led inside at the end of an AK-47. The moment the gate slammed shut, he began trying to manage the new wave of panic. Right when he should have been strategizing escape, negotiation, or anything that might give him any bit of leverage, all he could do was think of James. He strained to hear the sound of the engine over his captor’s shouts, but the sound didn’t come. Fear of what might’ve happened to James momentarily eclipsed the fear of what was happening to him. His thoughts flailed from hoping that James had, in fact, heard him shout, to, alternately, praying that he hadn’t, that he hadn’t witnessed John being captured, and that he was somewhere far away and safe.

_breathe_

Hands immediately rifled through his pockets, taking everything in them, including--

_/fuck/, Laila, I’m sorry_

\-- the mobile phone. One of the three - the tall one, based on the shoes -  knocked him to his knees, shoving him down onto the tightly compacted sand. John exhaled and braced for a blow, but the blow didn’t come, and when it didn’t, his mind scrambled to take in whatever information it could, anything to help him, searching his senses. From where he sat, he could only see three pairs of feet moving around him, the three guards, and only three voices. He thrashed his head around, looking for others, but the courtyard seemed empty of anyone else. One of the guards suddenly moved outside his field of vision, and as they did, he could hear the man’s voice retreating, leaving them —

_…and then there were two._

Beneath the bag, John’s face was already drenched in sweat, and it was a struggle to retain a through-line of thought. One had gone to get someone or something. In his absence, the other two began to argue. About him? He wasn’t sure, but one thought did surface:

_I could take on two._

Of the men that remained, one circled him, the other stood off to the side. John took a moment to appreciate the fact that they hadn’t hurt him. He’d expected to be kicked, punched, maybe have the butt of a gun slammed into the back of his head, but no, they kept a slight distance. Telling, that. They didn’t have the authority to hurt him, so the other had gone off to get someone who did.

_Fuck…_

That’s when he knew he had limited time. The moment someone in authority came, this whole situation would escalate, and his chances of him getting out alive would plummet. He needed a way out, any way out — to save himself, to find James and potentially sort out some kind of Plan B…and that’s when he saw it.

_Boots._

The boots belonged to the guard in the yellow scarf, John remembered. And what John saw was not just his boots, but something, more specifically, _in_ one of his boots. Yellow Scarf paced the closest, and as he paced, the handle of a knife appeared at the top of the man’s left boot.

Beneath the bag, John started to grin.

He couldn’t know how big the knife was, of course, but it was a weapon, regardless, and most importantly, it was a weapon within reach…if only he he could get a hand free.

John licked his lips and slyly shifted his weight, moving his knees to distract them, diverting their attention so he might test the cords that bound his wrists behind his back. His sweat had soaked them, leaving the fibres damp, which allowed them to stretch slightly. John knew then that there was a chance. Hell, he’d pull his own damn wrist off, if he had to, for the chance to—

_—grab the knife, knock one down, disarm the other—_

The guards continued their banter, and the pacing continued. Their discussion escalated, distracting them. John stopped being cautious about stretching the bonds. Sooner than John had anticipated, the cords around his wrists widened just enough to allow him to slip his left hand out, abrading the skin at his thumb and wrist.  He rewrapped it, loosely, in the cord to disguise it, to begin freeing his other hand, but approaching voices made for a quick change of plans. John knew this was his last chance. The two guards stopped arguing, presumably hearing their boss approaching as well, and Yellow Scarf paused his pacing.

_Now now NOW!_

John pulled off the bag and lunged, aiming for Yellow Scarf’s core, headbutting him, knocking the air out of him and grappling for the man’s knife. He only had a moment to grab the knife, disarm Grey Beard, and make a run for it before more captors joined the fray — and the thing was, the fucking bloody thing was, it almost bloody worked.

_Almost._

John got the goddamn knife, managed to kick the AK away, and had even landed a solid punch to Grey Beard’s jaw before a shot rang out from the other side of the courtyard, loud and clear.

John dropped, just inches away from reaching the gate.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't supposed to end this way.  
> John insisted on fighting back, so I rolled with it, and look where we are now, _John_...
> 
>    
>  **END NOTES**
> 
> \- [FollowerTease](https://privatelyvex.tumblr.com/post/164134699713/follower-tease-chapter-23-of-war-is-hell-will): Had to go with a poppy on this one!
> 
> \- [MRE Bombs are a real thing](https://coffeescholar.wordpress.com/2011/09/30/mre-bombs-for-harmless-fun/%0A). Don't try this at home, though! 
> 
> \- [Trauma Risk Management (TRiM)](http://www.army.mod.uk/welfare-support/23245.aspx) is the Army Department designated to help soldiers with mental health issues. 
> 
> \- Hard to believe that at one point, the Taliban had outlawed opium cultivation in Afghanistan, but it’s true. [Now, it’s the leading narco-state](https://www.thenation.com/article/the-drug-that-makes-the-taliban-possible/). 
> 
> \- [Why we don't fall asleep in poppy fields...](https://www.natureflip.com/blog/walking-in-a-poppy-field-do-we-fall-asleep)
> 
> \- [Taliban Networks in Afghanistan](https://www.usnwc.edu/getattachment/cb721e1e-7ec1-418b-934c-7aad90d187c4/Giustozzi-final-for-website.pdf) (link to .pdf, be warned) 
> 
> One more chapter to go! 
> 
> The final chapter of “War Is Hell” will post on **Sunday, October 1st**! (Sorry, had to push back a week...because what else is new? ;-p)
> 
> See you then!  
> <3  
> vex.


	24. Nangarhar to Camp Bastion (826km)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: Once again, Hover Notes, aka "Floating Boxes", are in use during this chapter! Whenever you see something written in a non-English language, if you hover over it with your mouse, the English translation will magically appear in a box floating beside it! BUT BE PATIENT - it takes a moment for the floating box to appear.
> 
> Sadly, the Hover Note feature is NOT available to those viewing on tablets or mobile phones. 
> 
> These translations are, unfortunately, critical to understanding what happens in this chapter - but because they are so numerous here, I can't simply post them in the End Notes as I usually do. If you read exclusively on mobile devises, my apologies, but please so feel free to [hit me up on Tumblr](privatelyvex.tumblr.com), and I'll be happy to send you a Hover Note free version of this chapter!
> 
> Thanks for your patience!

 

**16:23**

 

Over the course of John Watson’s lifetime, he’d witnessed hundreds, perhaps thousands of people getting shot - first the pretend ones, in movies and on the telly, and then the real thing on the news. His residency had been the first time he’d seen gunshot wounds firsthand, of course, and since he arrived in Afghanistan, it had been a non-stop horrorshow of what happens to flesh and bone once a bullet enters the human body.

With all of this prep, you’d think he really would have caught on quicker, or at least been more eloquent about it…

 _…oh fuck_ **_me_ ** _…_                                                                                                      

The force of the bullet knocked his leg out from under him, and he was on the ground before he’d really understood what happened. Thankfully, the pain was slightly more delayed than his realisation, which gave him a moment to process that yes, he’d been shot, yes in the thigh—

… _christ, really fucking been shot…_

—he could see the hole it had made on the front of his thigh, and yes, that was _his_ blood on the ground before the pain truly bloomed.

_…not enough…_

The thought flickered and the voices behind him rose, growing louder, more numerous and more varied than before, and still, he considered a renewed run for the gate - until he heard the sound of a half-dozen AK-47s being cocked.

He swiveled, sat up carefully and raised his hands above his head, knowing full well who he’d see when he turned around. “You bastard,” John said — and in fact, the Passenger was standing there, flanked by his three men and looking content. “Tell —  tell me that you didn’t just shoot me with my own bloody gun.”

The Passenger brandished his weapon knowingly before replying in English. “There’d be a kind of beauty to that, certainly, but you can’t expect me to keep track of all my weaponry.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself — you’ve done a fine job of keeping track of my ambulance.” John quipped, and willed himself to not pass out. 

_…front…_

Another flicker of thought, dismissed, as The Passenger’s smile became a glare, and he turned to address the others in Pashto. There were now more than a dozen men in the courtyard — the three guards, The Passenger and his party of three, which included a very butched-up Halekon, John noted, sporting stubble, even - and four men that John could only assume were the men in command of this particular opium operation, the men with whom The Passenger had been meeting. Of those men, one was clearly the man in charge: a man not much older than John, wearing a crisp white dress shirt, a black vest and a matching black turban. His beard was trimmed, and he wore innocuous-looking wireframe glasses — but behind those glasses were the eyes of a man who didn’t tolerate surprises like the unexpected arrival of an enemy soldier bleeding—

_out? No…_

—in his courtyard. When The Passenger stopped talking, the man in the Black Turban murmured a few words to Grey Beard. Still swiveling his jaw from John’s punch, Grey Beard moved to John’s side and kicked his injured leg sharply and with no small amount of relish. John cried out, clutching his leg reflexively, and fell onto his side, but he wouldn’t stay down for very long. Gripping John by the hair, Grey Beard lifted him painfully up onto his knees, and held him there, facing the crowd, as two other men firmly re-bound his wrists, this time in layers of tape. There’d be little chance of stretching his way out of these bonds.

The Passenger and Black Turban exchanged words, resulting in Black Turban nodding curtly and stepping back, watching on with interest. The Passenger approached John with a taunting grin. “If you’re here, I’m guessing that Dead Man must actually be dead.”

_“Must”. As in don’t know. As in they haven’t captured him. As in…_

The Passenger kept talking. “I mean, he must be dead, for you to risk trespassing onto Mullah Salam’s property — which means, you must be here for revenge, yes? Because you’d certainly be an idiot if you’ve come all this way, just to reclaim some shot-up ambulance.”

He turned back to the crowd, and echoed the sentiment in Pashto. The crowd duly laughed.

“But, I do have good news,” The Passenger continued, speaking confidentially to John as if he were a friend and leaning in close, bracing his hand on John’s shoulder. John recoiled at his touch. “You’ll be joining him soon, you know? Your Dead Man.”

“I seem to remember you predicting my death once before,” John spat.

“I wasn’t wrong, though, now was I?” The Passenger shrugged. “Perhaps my timing was a bit off, but regardless, your death is ensured.” He motioned to one of the Mullah’s men, who was holding a digital video camera in his hands, to come forward, and then turned back to John. “Remember to smile for the camera!”

The appearance of the camera, paired with the flash of a large, handheld scythe being passed forward through the small crowd kicked John’s mind into fast motion. He’d seen those videos on the internet, he knew how they ended, with the poor bastard in the black bag screaming for his life, for the painfully long moments until they managed to sever his vocal cords. John didn’t want to be that bastard, he didn’t want to die at all, and he certainly didn’t want the moments of his death reduced to some grotesque piece of media that would live on forever online. He realised then that he should have kept running, that it would have been better to die from a quick gunshot to the back of the head while running away than to die on his knees at the hands of these monsters.

_…too late for “should haves”…_

Panic swelled and bile raised in his throat at the thought of dying. Because he was, certainly, dying. Bound, bleeding and beyond outnumbered, John was positively out of options - and with his survival off the table, John chose to embrace the inevitable in the only way he knew how: to go down swinging.

He sneered and spat at The Passenger. “Does the Mullah know you’ve been shopping the ambulance to his rivals?” He turned to the man in the Black Turban. “Do you?”

“That revelation might’ve made an impact if any of these men actually understood English,” The Passenger snorted, and picked up the black bag from where John had thrown it down on the ground. He shook the dust off it. “I should have killed you the day we took the ambulance.”

“No, you’ve got that wrong,” John gritted, the pain in his leg ramping sharply— 

_—front of the thigh, not enough blood—_

—but he still attempted a smile. “Your friends should have killed me the day we blew them to bits on the side of Highway One. God, you really should have seen that fireball. It was beautiful.”

“You will pay for that - in this life and the next,” The Passenger hissed, and Mullah Salam intervened, speaking curtly to the Passenger and pointing to John. The Passenger replied, defensively, and then gave the bag to Grey Beard. He took the scythe from one of Mullah’s men, and brandished it for the crowd.

John swallowed, his pulse rocketing as Grey Beard jammed the black bag over his face, blinding him once again. Grey Beard gripped the top of his head, this time through the bag and jerking his head back deeply, Grey Beard exposed the soldier’s throat to the crowd. The Passenger began talking in Pashto. The tone seemed formal, self-conscious, and John presumed this was his sentencing, a listing of crimes that started on the side of that road in Tarnak Wa Jaldak (or perhaps at his very birth) and ended right here, in this courtyard. When the Passenger’s recitation ended, John understood, so would he.

Inside the bag, he spun, panicked, and prayed to God in spite of himself.

_This was it. This was really fucking it._

The Passenger, grandstanding now, shouted words in Pashto, and then translated for John. “Any last words, infidel?”

_…words…_

The Passenger’s question echoed in his brain, until it tickled just the right memory, cutting through the panic and pain like neon on a dark night. Suddenly, Captain John Watson was no longer out of options.

John licked his lips. “Words, plural? No,” he said, working to steady himself, his voice muffled but still audible from beneath the bag. “But I do have _one word_.”

The Passenger paused and moved closer. “No one’s gonna believe you,” he breathed, quietly.

“One word, and I promise you, it’ll be one everyone understands.” John whispered blindly, echoing the words James had said to The Passenger, days ago. “Come on - let’s play the same game we played before. Let’s see if you can kill me before I say that one…little…word."

“ _ تاسو سپیڅلی کرم! _” The Passenger blustered, “ _ ته د یوه ویډیو زوی!  _ You think you can threaten me? You’re already dead and buried! You are already a ghost. And I’m—”

No one would never find out what The Passenger thought he was, because at that precise moment, his words were abruptly stopped by a gunshot coming from somewhere behind John.

_…behind me…._

A second shot immediately followed, and then a series of shots — all from the same direction.

One clearly hit Grey Beard, who fell forward, his body slumping over John, the abrupt weight on top of him forcing John to flinch as if he’d been the one shot. Trapped in the darkness of the black bag, beneath the presumed-dead guard, John shook, panicked, his eyes scanning for whatever he could see from under the edge of the bag. He could see feet running past him, could hear shouting and the rapid-fire sounds of the Taliban responding with semi-automatic weapon blasts. Still bound, John worked his shoulders forward, sliding flat under Grey Beard’s body, and in doing so, worked the bag off his head. He gasped for fresh air., turning his head wildly, looking to confirm the source of his reprieve, and there, up on the compound wall, with the setting sun brilliantly lighting his face like some goddamn movie hero, stood the latest in a long line of decorated Sholtos, dating all the way back to the Anglo-Zulu War:

_Major James Sholto._

John’s heart sung. James wasn’t just safe, his was in the process of saving _him_ , picking targets and deftly dodging gunfire while moving quickly along the edge of the wall.

“Stay put, John!” he shouted, as if John, still bound, had any choice.

After that, everything moved at lightning speed. Events seemed to happen simultaneously, each layering on top of one another, to the point where John could never be sure of the exact sequence. James dropped down into the courtyard almost immediately, and once on the ground, advanced, still shooting, hefting The Passenger’s now limp body up over his shoulder to use as a shield. It was only fitting, after all — The Passenger had been wearing James’ security vest - and while, even with the Passenger wrapped around him, James was not bulletproof, by any stretch, he was still safer than he would have been without.

_…bulletproof…_

John remembered counting bullets at some point — James’, not the enemy’s. Laila had left them just 9 bullets, which had seemed adequate up on the hill, but now seemed woefully, painfully, limited. Even so, the courtyard had emptied a good deal, with four bodies on the ground - The Passenger and Grey Beard, one of the Mullah’s men, one of the Passenger’s men — bullets 1 through 4. Of the original guards who’d captured John, only the Tall One remained, and a quick scan showed Yellow Scarf was nowhere to be seen, living or dead. Had he been shot before he ran? Possible bullet 5…

All of which meant that there could be no more than five bullets left in the chamber, and even that was generous, assuming just one bullet per body, and that James had fired no stray shots during his advance into the courtyard. A maximum of five bullets left, and more likely less, to take out as many as six more men.

Before John had finished counting the bullets, two more bodies fell — the Mullah’s second man and the Tall One, bullets 6 and 7.  Five insurgents remained in the courtyard — Scarface and the Halekon, plus the Mullah’s last two remaining men and the Mullah himself. All but the Mullah was armed, and John didn’t see anyone on his side counting bullets. John wondered why more men didn’t come pouring out of the compound, to save the Mullah - surely there were more.

_…unless they wanted him dead, too._

Feasible, John thought. An “infidel” comes in and conveniently removes the Mullah, providing advancement for underlings without them ever getting their own hands dirty. He mulled this point over until he realised the pointlessness of his theorising. Two or three bullets left, max. He’d never find out because  

_…we’re not getting out of this alive._

The thought led to sudden, furious movement, to action, to screaming bloody pain as John wrestled out from under Grey Beard, struggled to his feet and lunged at the nearest target — the Halekon. Balancing on his bad leg just long enough to kick the gun out of the boy’s hand, he dropped back to the ground, writhing, his leg spasming, the sight of the semi sailing across the sand well worth the pain.

“James!” he shouted, and jerked his head towards the now available firearm. The Halekon tried to reclaim his weapon, but John willed himself to standing once more, and ran headfirst into the boy’s midsection, tackling him and knocking the wind out of him.

“Sorry kid,” he mumbled, just as a new barrage of gunfire kicked up the sand near his feet, chasing him into the corner, behind a plastic water drum. His leg was on fire, and the doctor in him tried not to think about things like aggravating the soft-tissue damage and wound contamination. The gunfire that had chased John there almost immediately stopped, when one of the Mullah’s men crumpled as James fired off one of his remaining shots. John peered around the drum to watch the man, dead-eyed, fall to the sand, a bullethole perfectly centered on his forehead.

_Bloody brilliant shot…_

Also, frustrating. While their odds of surviving increased with every felled body, it was still an unfair fight. As skilled as James was with the firearm, it was only sheer luck and nimbleness that was keeping him alive. That luck couldn’t last, and John knew he needed to get his arse into the fight - but the layers of duct tape around his wrists weren’t budging. His eyes darted, looking for a way to cut through—

_…the scythe…_

— and while John scanned the courtyard, looking for the weapon, Scarface began shooting in his direction. John ducked, once again, fully behind the plastic water drum, prompting Scarface to send a barrage of bullets directly into the drum. Water poured out from the holes left behind. James, meanwhile, had Scarface in his sights, but when he pulled the trigger, nothing came out.

_Shit._

Laila’s bullets had finally run out, with four men still left to kill. James tossed the Tokorev to the ground, and scrambled for the AK left behind by the Passenger. Once re-armed, he rattled a series of shots in Scarface’s direction, encouraging him to move away from the barrel, hissing at John as he passed. “The water, John, use the goddamned water!”

_Of course!_

John plunged his hands into the opening at the top of the drum and immediately felt the tape adhesive loosening. He ducked back behind the barrel and shed the wet tape strands as quickly as possible before charging towards the gun the Halekon had left behind.

Newly armed, John let off a burst of gunfire, clipping Scarface’s cheek—

_…what’s one more scar, really?_

— and Scarface returned fire. James frowned, and seeing him distracted, the Mullah’s last remaining guard took a chance and tackled James to the ground, shoving the Passenger’s body off his shoulders. They grappled in the dirt, while John and Scarface continued to volley shots at one another. During all of this, the Mullah picked up one of the discarded AKs on the ground, and after some fumbling, leveled it at the fighting pair of James and the guard on the ground.

“No!” John shouted, seeing the move out of the corner of his eye, and Scarface be damned, John sprinted (as best he could) towards the Mullah, knocking him over at precisely the same moment he pulled the trigger. For one mad, panicked moment, he and the Mullah lay on the ground, both wide-eyed and holding their breaths, waiting for the bullet to land.

_…no no no, please no…_

After a moment that seemed to last days, the guard let loose a plaintive cry, and James scrambled free. He took the guard’s gun, adding to his personal arsenal, and left the man to bleed out into the dirt. John elbowed the Mullah in the face, and then, taking the Mullah’s gun, aimed it at him, at point-blank range.

“ _ درېدل! _" Scarface shouted in Pashto, the pitch and tone of the word unmistakeable, even to English speakers. He dropped his gun and held up his hands. “ _ د هغه سړي سر ویښته مه کوئ! _”

James stopped, and lowered his gun. “John, hold your fire,” he said, and reluctantly, John backed off.  

James turned his attention to Scarface. “ _ که تاسو هغه وواژه نو ستاسو لپاره څه توپیر دی؟ _”

“ _ ځکه چې هغه ښه سړی دی، _” Scarface insisted, and shoved the Halekon forward. “ _ تاسو غواړئ څوک ووژني، وژنه وکړئ. _” '

The Halekon looked on in horror, and looked quickly to see if James would follow suit, but instead, James just smiled, and moved past them to get closer to Scarface, speaking in a confidential tone. “ _ د مناسب هوا ملګرې بټ، تاسو نه یاست؟ مګر ډیر فرصت پسند کارپوه. _”

“ _ سیال؟ _” The Halekon asked, his back to Scarface, clearly shaken.

Scarface ignored him, and looked to James. “ _ فرصت پسند څه ډول؟ _”

James frowned, breathing hard, his face dripping sweat. _ "ښه، ستاسو مشر مړ شو، او تاسو یو خولې نه باسي. ښایي تاسو دا د یو فرصت په توګه وګورئ نو یو نوي ته وده ورکړئ، یو پیاوړی یو او شاید، د ځان لپاره د امبولینس پلور پلور ګټه واخلئ؟ _"

“ _ سیال، آیا دا سمه ده؟ _” The Halekon ran a confused hand through his hair. Scarface, simply scowled, and raised his hand, menacingly in the Halekon’s direction. The boy flinched, and backed off.

“ _ ستاسو نقطه؟ _” Scarface challenged.

“ _ زما نقطه ده، _” said James, " _ دا په داسې حال کې چې ډیری یې زما له سوداګرۍ څخه نه دي، زه ډاريږم چې وروستنۍ برخه پیښ نشي. امبولانس ستاسو پلور نه دی. _" He paused, and held out his hand. " _ موږ کلیدی راکړه. _ "

The man responded with a laugh. ایا تاسو واقعیا جدي یاست؟ دا ... قتل عام ... ټول د امبولانس مات شوي وی؟ ”

" _ دا مات شوی امبولانس داسې ښکاري چې تاسو ته خورا ډیر ارزښت لري. _

_" _ د هغه لپاره، شاید، _" _Scarface said, jutting his jaw at the Mullah. _" _ موږ ته نه. تاسو ته نه، یقینا._" _

" _ یوازې هغه وواژه، سمال! _" The Mullah said, his voice shrill and hard.

" _ کلیدی، سیال، او موږ به تاسو ته اجازه درکړو. _"

" _ ایا تاسو په ډیره حیرانتیا سره ویجاړ شئ؟! _" The Halekon swore in James’ direction. " _ آیا ستاسو بدبختیا به عام شي! _"

Annoyed, Scarface backhanded the Halekon, " _ خپل خوله وخوړئ، تاسو ماشوم وخورئ! خایری مه کوئ چې تاسو به ستاسو په لور راشي! زه دلته خبرې اترې کوم، _" he said, and shoved the boy so hard he fell to the ground. The Halekon lifted his eyes to glare at Scarface.

" _ تاسو خبرو اترو کې یاست، مګر تاسو د دې وړتیا نلرئ _" explained James, patiently.

" _ زه ټوپک لرم _"

" _ موږ دوه لرو. دری، تخنیکي پلوه. زه تکراروم: تاسو هیڅ ګټه نه لرئ. _"

" _ هو، یوازې د هغې انتظار ته _" Scarface whispered, smiling broadly at something just over their shoulders.

In the next moment, three things happened, all at once:

First: John Watson was dragged backwards by the Mullah, who’d not only recovered from the elbowing, but had also located the scythe, and placed it immediately at John’s neck. The Mullah indicated that it would be in John’s best interest to drop his gun. John, quite fond of his neck, complied.

Second: While the others were distracted by the commotion, from his position on the ground, The Halekon quietly took John’s discarded gun. which had been his gun to begin with.

Third: The Halekon proceeded to shoot Scarface, point blank, in the head. The man fell backwards, looking as stunned as everyone else in the courtyard.

For a moment, no one said a word. The Mullah loosened his chokehold on John for a moment, in disbelief. John’s eyes darted from the Halekon to James, who simply shook his head.

" _ زوی، _" James started, reaching out to the boy, but the child simply turned the gun on him, with renewed intent.

" _ له ما سره خبرې مه کوئ، که چیرې زه هغه ووینم، زه تاسو وینوالی شم! _" He shouted.

The Mullah resumed his grip on John and growled to the Halekon. " _ هلک وکړه، هلک. کفارو ته ماتې ورکړه _"

" _ تاسو نه غواړم ما ووژني، زوی، _" James said, in a soothing voice, all the while keeping his own weapon on the Halekon.

" _ تاسو یې ووژلو، زه باید تاسو ووینم، _" The boy said, his eyes distant, as if he was talking to himself. " _ ولې زه تاسو ټکول نه کړم؟ _"

" _ هلک وواژه، هلک! _" The Mullah charged, and as the Mullah’s arm jostled, and the blade bit shallowly into John’s throat.  

Looking back, John wished that he could say that he approached the resolution of the situation from a place of calm, cool logic — that he ran through all the possible outcomes, assessed the boy’s weaknesses and reacted strategically. But the truth was anything but. Instead, he whispered, with a hint of a whine as the blade pressed tighter.  “Please, kid, please…don’t do this. I’m asking you. Please don’t shoot him!”

The Halekon’s gun remained trained on James. Of course John knew the boy couldn’t comprehend the actual words he was speaking, but once he’d started, he couldn’t stop.

“Y-you are so young, and I know this is all you know, but he’s all I have—“

" _دوی کمزوری دي، هلک. هغه وواژه. _ " The Mullah said, impatiently. " _هغه یې وژني یا به دوی ستاسو د بد اخلاقۍ سره اخته کړي. _ "

The boy racheted his gun, and squinted into the sight, barrel still firmly aimed at James.

James’ fingers flexed on the grip of his own gun. " _زوی، زه نه غواړم تاسو ته زیان ورسوم - _ "

" _یا کیدای شي دوی له تا سره د دوی د کمزوري په ناروغۍ اخته کړي. _ " The Mullah threatened. " _ایا دا دی؟ _ "

“Kid, please,” John lurched forward, his voice desperate tears in his eyes. He felt lightheaded, and the Mullah’s blade was beginning to cut a slightly deeper thread along his throat. A trail of blood slid down his neck, but John took little notice. “Don’t take him away from me. I’ve only just found him. Goddammit, I love him!”

The Mullah put his foot down. “ _اوس بنده کړئ یا د دوی سره د رشوت سره مینځل شئ! _ "

With shaking hands, the boy aimed and pulled the trigger.

 

 

 

* * *

 

The shots echoed in the courtyard.

In the very last moment, the Halekon swung the barrel of the gun away from James and towards John. Assuming this was the end, John had braced himself — but then came the blasts and the blood spatter and the blade fell from his neck. The Mullah toppled soon after, landing heavily at John’s feet, and even the boy seemed surprised.

James had been the first to move in the aftermath. Slowly, reverently, he lowered his gun, and placed it on the ground in front of the Halekon.

The boy looked at it, quizzically.

James spoke with care. " _دا د هغه دا بندوق. دا یوازې د تاسو لپاره دا حق دی. _ "

The boy stumbled back, looking at James in disbelief before snatching up the firearm. With tears in his eyes, he cradled it in his arms, murmuring to himself, a meditation, perhaps a prayer — and for a moment, John wondered if he remembered that he and James were still there. His looked to James, who shook his head slightly, cautioning him to stay put. John nodded back and stilled, waiting as the boy mourned.

Eventually, the Halekon stirred, and never taking his eyes off John and James, he rolled Scarface’s body over with his foot. With a sniffle, he reached a hand into the deceased’s pocket, mirroring Scarface’s own actions with James, days before in the valley, and retrieved the ambulance keys.

" _ واخلئ! _" He said, and threw the keys at James’ feet. He still clutched the Passenger’s gun. " _ هغوی واخله او هیڅکله مې ونه ګورئ. _"

" _ موږ به ونه کړو _" James said, understanding dawning. " _ زه ژمنه کوم چې موږ به نه شو. _"

" _ که تاسو کوی، _" The Halekon said, eyes locked to James, " _ زه به تا ونه وژم، زه به هغه ووژنم. ایا تاسو پوهېږی؟ _"

" _ زه پوهیږم، _" James said clearly. " _ موږ به ستاسو پیروي ونه کړو. _"

And with that, the Halekon picked up his gun, and slung it over his shoulder, along with the Passenger’s. They rattled against one another, a heavy burden supported by such a slight frame.

" _ خوندي شه، زوی، _" James said, as the boy ran to the gate. “ _ خدای ستاسو سره وي. _"

 

The moment they were alone, James rushed to John’s side, and they collapsed against each other with relief and gratitude.

 

  

 

* * *

 

**16:35**

 

James half-carried John to the ambulance before anyone else from inside the compound could come out to survey the damage. Thrumming with adrenaline, cortisol, norepinephrine, John thought the driver’s cab had never looked so good.

“You saved my life.”    

“You saved mine, first.”   

“Don’t be too sure. Your leg, John…”     

“Let me worry about the leg — you just get us the hell out of here!”

And James did just that, tearing out of the compound and heading first west and then, despite intense complaint from John, turning north instead of south, turning towards Bagram instead of Bastion, to get John medical attention. John had stopped his bleeding with a makeshift bandage — the sweat rag, tied tightly -  but you didn’t have to be a doctor to understand the difference antibiotics could make three hours into an injury versus eight.  

 

 

 

* * *

 

**17:30**

 

His hands shook on the steering wheel, the accelerator pressed to the floor, James drove like a bat out of hell, and John didn’t care. The more distance they could put between themselves and that compound the better.

“This was my fault, you know.”     

“No, John, I—“     

“No, listen - I-I-I put all of the powder in the damn thing at the last minute, all of it, I wanted it louder, but I hadn’t counted on it being faster. I should’ve.           

“ _I_ should’ve! I should’ve sensed that you were in trouble, I-I should’ve figured out how to get into the compound quicker. If anything, it’s my fault you were shot.”

“Shut it - I’d rather be shot than bloody beheaded!”

 

It wasn’t that funny, but they both laughed, and for way too long.

 

 

 

* * *

 

**19:45**

 

Captain Miller proclaimed John the luckiest patient she’d see all week, as the bullet had passed through his leg completely, miraculously managing to avoid both artery and bone. The tissue damage was serious, she said, but with time, antibiotics and maybe a little rehab, she expected a full recovery. John watched James’ expression when Miller shared the diagnosis, and the relief on his face was the most beautiful thing John Watson had ever seen in his life.

Once John was patched up, they both politely refused beds for the night at Bastion, even though it was late.

“If we leave now, I can be in your bed before dawn,” John had said to James, in private.  

“If we leave now, we’ll be home before dawn,” James had said to Miller, in the lobby.

Edwards was sleeping, so a reunion was not in the cards. John left him a cryptic note that made James furrow his brow, reading over his shoulder. “ _‘Eat your bloody veggies and tell H. hello.’_ who the hell is H.?”

John tucked the note beneath the chocolate milk on his tray. “I’ll tell you when we get home. Take me home, James.”  

 

 

 

* * *

 

**20:36**

 

Back on the road, the battle-scarred BFA was once again loaded with petrol and water, and enough food to get them home and then some. Before they’d left, Miller had handed John a bag with medical supplies — some bandages, his antibiotics, pain medication…and, as he discovered once they reached the highway, a generous handful of condoms. He pulled them out of the bag, showing James.

“Did you…?” John asked.                 

James shook his head. “Of course not. You’re injured, for god’s sake.”

“She’s clever, isn’t she?”

“Not sure how clever she would have to be, considering you literally came out of the closet with your trousers undone.”            

John scowled. “Cheers, mate — thanks for that.” He dug further into the bag. “God, there’s so many…”

James couldn’t help but laugh. “Not sure whether to be flattered or insulted.“

 

 

 

* * *

 

**23:23**

 

They’d cheered when James turned back onto Highway One, returning once again to the Highway to Hell, this time headed south. By the time they hit Kabul, John’s painkillers had kicked in, lulling him into a peaceful sleep. Somewhere around Ghazni, he’d stirred long enough to drink some water.

“Had it really been a decade since you shot a gun?”

“Outside of a shooting range, yes. Over a decade, actually.”

“You were amazing up there.”

“Only when it counts, dear.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

**00:09**

 

“Where will he go?”    

“Wherever he goes, it’s bound to be better than where he’s been.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

**00:32**

 

The road has a rhythm, when you’ve been driving for hours, a rhythm you can only hear in the dead of night, in a foreign place that’s starting to feel like home.

_...or maybe it’s the painkillers..._

Outside his window, the night surrounded them, and John knew the painkillers were making him drift, in and out of consciousness, of awareness. His leg throbbed, but the pain was dull, the blessed rhythm of the road drowning it out. In that moment, an overwhelming wave of gratitude washed over John, a sudden, tremendous appreciation of the crisp night air and the stars above them, because he’d very nearly missed this night, and every night that would follow.

He reached over and took James’ hand in his, squeezing tight.

 

 

 

* * *

 

**02:13**

 

“John, wake up. Time for medicine.”

John had been sleeping, again, his leg pressed against the door to keep it from jostling. The car was stopped and the dark was around them. The driver’s side door was open, and James fed him pills, handing him a canteen to wash them down.

The water was cool and crisp, and John made an audible gasp when the cool hit his teeth.

“That’s good, thank you,” he said, sleepily, and moved to tuck right back into his position against the door when a nag of a thought surfaced.

  _I know that taste._

In fact, the trees outside the window looked familiar, even in the dark. There was a curve to the road they were on, and he recognised the arch of the hill behind them: he’d definitely been in this place before.

“James?”

“Yes, John?” He replied, the faintest of smiles on his lips.

“That water...”

“Yes?”            

“It tastes like...like...the blood, sweat and tears of an earnest Labourist.”   

“Such a discerning palate.”

“Kiss me, already, you arse.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

**05:53**

 

The pinks and purples were just burning out of the sky, the sun fully risen by the time they reached the outer edges of Camp Bastion. James pulled to a stop half a mile out, pulling onto the side of the road, overlooking the gate. Soldiers manned the concrete pillars that marked the entrance, and beyond them, they could see the base, already long-awake and bustling with activity.   

“Everything alright?” John asked, with a worried frown.

“Fine. It’s just...” James let his voice trail off, and then shook his head. “It’s ridiculous. For the past five days, it’s been all about getting home, and now that we’re finally here...“

“...you wish you were anywhere else,” John agreed. “I get it.”

James sighed. “Once we go through that gate, you know, real life starts again.”

_Excuse me?_

John interrupted him. “This was real.”

“You know what I mean,” James said.

Except John didn’t. Not really. He squinted, and stared at the scene before them, if only so that he wouldn’t have to see James’ face, parse his expression. Truth be told, he’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop, for James to come to his senses, and for him to do it just as they approached the base, well, it made sense, damn it. As a gentleman, he’d let John down easy, right before arrival, with no time for an argument - very cool, very calm and very calculated.

_...so very Posh..._

“Listen: those...things you said,” James started, “In the compound. To the Halekon.”

And there it was. The fucking shoe.

 _Don’t take him away from me..._  

The minute he’d said the words--

_...I’ve only just found him..._

\--he’d known he’d have to explain himself--

_...goddammit, I love him._

“James,” he said, “He was going to kill you.”

“Yes, apparently.” James said quietly. “Did you mean it?”

John hesitated, unsure of the play here. If he denied it, he’d be lying. If he was honest, and James had only ever intended this to be some sort of extended one-night stand, John knew he’d feel like a fool for the rest of his tour. What’s worse was the fact that, knowing James, even if he _did_ return his feelings, it didn’t mean they were headed for some Happily Ever After. It could still lead to a breakup, half a mile away from camp.

“Look, I understand you, James. You know I do, more than most,” John started, “But when he pointed that gun at your head, I had to do something.”

James leaned forward, angling his body to face John’s, his words pointed. “Did. You. Mean. It.?”

John scrubbed his face with his hands and looked away, every cell in his body telling him to deny, deny, deny -- but the ache in his heart telling him to say, at long last--

“Yes, you idiot. Of course I bloody meant it.”

James processed John’s answer, his expression inscrutable, his brow furrowed. “Could this be some sort of a post-traumatic reaction? You were nearly murdered.”

John’s turn to process. “You think I’m saying that I meant it because I’m shell-shocked?”

“Maybe not,” James said. “It might be because I saved your life? Or because I finagled you a new MRI?”

“Christ, are you serious?” It occurred to John that James might’ve been trying to give him a graceful out, but John wasn’t about to agree with this kind of nonsense. “I’m not saying I love you out of gratitude, or because you gifted my hospital with a piece of diagnostic equipment.” John said, with growing impatience. “And before you ask, I’m not saying it because you’re my superior officer, either. I’m saying it because in the last five days, I’ve faced car troubles, medical emergencies, been carjacked, been stranded in the desert, and yes, I was captured and nearly lost my head: but you know what?”

“Tell me.”

“They’ve been the best five days of my entire life.”

James nodded -- again, seeming to process John’s words with an unreadable expression on his face. He straightened in his seat, then, and ran a hand through his hair before turning, at last, to John.

“John,” he said, with a studied tone, as if he’d been practising them in his head. “I realise we’ve only known one another for a very short time, but there’s something you should know.” 

_Here we go..._

John braced himself. “Just say it.”

“At the compound, when I’d sorted out that you’d been taken, everything fell into place. There was no doubt as to what had to be done, nor was there question as to whether my efforts would be successful. They would be, because I understood that a world without John Watson was not a world worth living in.”

He said it, just like that - very matter-of-fact - and John hoped like hell this wasn’t the vicodin whispering sweet nothings. “That’s-that’s not true,” John said, softly.

“It is to me, and I’ve only known you for five days,” James said earnestly, and then adding, with a smile. “Imagine what I’ll be like after a week.”                                

John couldn’t help but smile with him. “Or after a month?”

“After a year, however, I will expect a ring,” James teased.

“Hm, what goes best with multi-terrain camo? Gold or platinum?” John grinned, and pulled him close. “If this really is on, though, honestly, it’s not going to be easy.”

“Nothing ever is with us, so why start now?” James lifted John’s chin, and kissed him sweetly, the way Robin kissed Marian - or maybe it was the other way around. “So what do you think? Are you ready?”

“Yes,” John nodded. “Let’s go home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES:**
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> \- [Follower Tease](https://c1.staticflickr.com/8/7171/6642214249_df4c486c5e_b.jpg):This the reference I used for the compound (albeit, in my mind, it wasn't muddy). The soldier seen in the foreground of this pic is actually a soldier from The Royal Highland Fusiliers.
> 
> \- A [plethora](http://survivalist101.com/gunshot-wound-treatment-survivalist-style/) of [gunshot](https://www.ahcmedia.com/articles/76797-gunshot-wounds-management-and-myths) [wound](http://www.biomedsearch.com/article/Gunshot-wounds-to-extremities/166094302.html) [research](http://www.emsworld.com/article/10319706/shootings-what-ems-providers-need-know)! [Seriously](http://concealednation.org/2015/08/youre-involved-in-a-self-defense-shooting-and-youve-been-shot-in-the-leg-are-you-prepared-until-help-arrives/), so much [fucking](http://www.wikihow.com/Treat-a-Bullet-Wound#Treating_a_Wound_in_the_Arms_or_Legs_sub) [research](http://thesurvivaldoctor.com/2012/07/26/gunshot-wounds/), I [can’t even](http://health.howstuffworks.com/human-body/parts/best-place-to-get-shot1.htm%20) [begin](https://thoughtcatalog.com/holly-riordan/2017/02/26-gunshot-survivors-explain-exactly-what-the-bullet-felt-like/) to [tell you](https://www.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/26v8rf/seriousactual_gun_shot_survivors_whats_the/%0A). Please note that [this one](http://www.jems.com/articles/2016/08/tactical-ems-treatment-of-high-velocity-gunshot-wound.html) features graphic pics of a naked soldier’s shot-up butt. 
> 
> \- When The Passenger and then the Mullah started getting shouty, and damning John and James, [I had to first at least somewhat understand the Muslim view of Hell](https://owlcation.com/humanities/Islam-and-Hell-Does-Islam-Believe-In-Hell). This is where I got the Mullah’s reference to “The Abyss”. 
> 
> \- [Another source for when the Taliban got shouty](https://orbala.net/2014/10/26/khairey-pashto-curses-insults-and-abuses-in-the-pashtun-culture/). I’d never heard of the term “khairey” before. 
> 
> \- Much like Gizmo, if you want duct tape to remain adhesive, [never get it wet](https://www.echotape.com/2015/04/02/warning-6-reasons-not-to-use-duct-tape/%0A). 
> 
> \- [The kind of scythe used in poppy farms.](http://www.tearfund.org/~/media/images/main_site/news/generic_news/scythe_credit_clarita_morguefile.jpg) (I’m sorry) 
> 
> \- British soldiers refer to their camo as [Multi-Terrain Pattern](http://army.mod.uk/camouflage/200.aspx) (MTP for short)! 
> 
>  
> 
> Hello, friends!
> 
> I’ve spent 18 months talking about “getting the hell out of Afghanistan”, and with the publishing of this chapter, my tour of duty is finally coming to a close!
> 
> If you’ve been reading this fic as I’ve been writing, bless you and you rock -- readers like you are my motivation to wake up early on the weekend and write - your comments and kudos keep me engaged in the story and the process, all along the way! 
> 
> If you’ve NOT been reading, but have been waiting to read it all in one go, bless you, too, and you rock as well - knowing you were out there, anticipating the read is both terrifying (because: expectations!) but also fantastic, and always reminded me to write a story worth waiting for (and I hope I didn’t disappoint).
> 
> To both groups, I want to say THANK YOU for your patience, for sticking with me through my computer failure + random life interruptions that slowed chapter delivery in 2017. I’d also like to give a BIG RIDICULOUS HUG to those of you who’ve been generous enough to hype this story within the Sherlock community and beyond, by creating fab fan art, reccing it on Tumblr, Twitter, or even talking about it on a podcast! ;-p Never having written a word for this particular pairing before, it gave this work cred to have folks like you saying such kind things about it, so again, THANK YOU! 
> 
> Not one to leave anyone out - for those of you who might just happen across this fic months or years after publication, bless you, too! The random kudo or comment on an older fic is ALWAYS a welcome treat and a reminder that the things we write live on, long after we move on to the next project! 
> 
> Every reader should also thank BakerStMel for doing an AMAZING (and much needed) job Beta-ing this fic. I'm pretty sure she didn't anticipate this going on for as long as it did, but she always made herself available, even when the turnarounds times were ridiculous. Her guidance and support was unflinching and absolutely invaluable. Love you, Mel! 
> 
> Finally, thanks to DS, who challenged me to write a Jolto “one-shot” all those months ago and sent me down this path in the first place. It’s been a blast!
> 
> Love,  
> <3  
> vex.


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